


The Sketch

by Control_Room



Series: The Big Picture [5]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: A Lot of Death, Angst, Arrests, Blood and Gore, Character Growth, Child Death, Death, Death Threats, Family Dinners, Fanboying, Fear of Drowning, Flashbacks, Found Family, Gen, Gentle, Grief/Mourning, Growth, Hope, Hope vs. Despair, Hugs, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage, Intrusive Thoughts, Jail, Jewish Holidays, Kidnapping, Kisses, Lobotomy, Love, Masks, Memory Loss, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, More tags later, Okay Ending, Pipes - Freeform, Rebirth, Roses, Shabbat, Sickness, Starting Over, Suicide Attempt, Symbolism, Syndicate, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Uncle-Nephew Relationship, Vomiting, Whispers, be blessed, fear of dogs, getting over fear, lengthy descriptions, mild violence, perspective play, reset, running away from feelings, you know what this is?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2020-04-05 17:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19044814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room
Summary: Joey Drew felt right. Yes. The name was alright, the face masked, the size, the color, the eyes, hidden, everything was alright about the man that stood before a mirror.Not perfect, but just fine.





	1. Lines

**Author's Note:**

> will be uploaded incrementally on tumblr, until it is uploaded on that hellsite it will remain "non cannon".
> 
> yet.

There is a man.

 

Imagine a man.

 

Okay, that is fine.

 

But he is thinner.

 

A little thinner.

 

And tall. At the verge of impossibly tall. Just a wee bit shorter.

 

Blue hair.

 

No, not bright blue, wrong color. Dark midnight blue, like ink.

 

Not bad.

 

It is rather spiked and long. Brushing his shoulders. Not spiky in the middle, no, kind of forming horns between pointed ears.

 

His skin is darker than that. Darker… darker… hmm. I guess that fits.

 

Red eyes. Not like rubies. No, not alexandrite either. More of a maroon. No, that is too deep, use less purple. Think pyrope. That is right.

 

Set above his eyes, his eyebrows are thin- no that’s too thin. Too thick. Close enough- and set in a perpetually concerned way, except when he is not anxious. His is, normally, anxious.

 

Beneath both eyes and brows, are a pair of half moon, rose colored lenses. The entire glasses frame and glass seem to be made from the same material. It is not glass, as it feels strange to the touch. Neither is it plastic, or some strange metal.

 

His nose is hooked, but not smooth. There is a small ridge, as though it has been broken when he was young. Or at least, younger. He seems rather young already.

 

His nose makes a bit of a diamond to the bottom, pointing down to his lips, between a pencil moustache that appears to be trying to make him look older, as is the small beard.

 

Between moustache and beard, his lips are a bit redder than his skin. That is way too red. He is not wearing lipstick. Think more rouge. Still too red. His skin is naturally dark. Just. Tint it.

 

Fine. That is… fine. Just stop. Please.

 

On one side of his forehead, peaking out of his hair, there is a small, cream white, more tannish, scar. There is another on his left ear. And another waving a quiet ‘I’m here’ from his neck, between his shoulders and collar, barely overlooking his white dress shirt.

 

His shoes are spectator brogues, the pointed tip and slightly elevated heel completely black, and the middle white, the laces a startling green. Above are grey, tight pants. Those are too tight. And a lighter grey, very nearly white. That is good. The same startling green of his laces is the color of a belt on a high waist, slight hips, possibly because his thinness shows his body more than he would like.

 

His dress shirt is covered by a suit. This suit seems custom made, a dark blue, bluer than his hair, with pure grey lapels. The lapels are… well. Take a half circle, and in the center, cut away a circle, forming a crescent on the inside with a straight back. Put one of these flat crescents on both sides. Between is a red tie, the same crescent shape in black poking out of the suit. The knot is square. Above his heart is a pin. It is shiny, and a rainbow, the red starting from the innermost part, the rainbow splaying out. It seems to have a clasp, nearly invisible. Yes, like that. You did wonderful. It is alright if you did not get his suit perfect.

 

He did make it himself, after all.

 

When?

 

Ah. Now we are getting somewhere. Who cares for details, anyways?

 

It started after his reset.

 

His head pounded.

 

And he went to work.

 

It was a monday.

 

He had somewhere to be on tuesday. An old park. Meeting someone special.

 

They planned it thirty years later.

 

Feeling the weight of his memories, heavy and confusing, on his shoulders he trudged in the snow, without the jacket he had not made yet, he shivered.

 

Looking about, the world seemed so odd, having retained his glasses from the last one.

 

He shuddered with cold as the snow fell around him. His pin glistened in the bright winter morning sun.

 

Remembering this, these same steps, made him wonder if he had a choice. He stopped. And moved a few steps to the left. He smiled slightly, and he continued on.

 

He was so hungry, and so cold.

 

He sat with a few papers around him, testing his skills in animation once more, adding one frame at a time, faster than he had been last time, knowing the motions, understanding the rhythm. He was still so hungry.

 

His coworker, the one that told him to go on break, was glancing at him with concern.

 

With a sigh, they gave in and went over to him.

 

“Break’s over, man,” he said to him. “You don’t want the boss angry at you again, pal.”

 

“I know,” he whispered. He did not move. His legs ached. He shivered, the blast from the crack in the door reaching him. They were, of course, in the basement, and coupling the natural cold of the underground and the winter with the law that heat must rise, the basement was frigid.

 

He closed his eyes.

 

A nap would not hurt, right?

 

He was being shook.

 

He pried his eyes open.

 

His coworker was looking over him, concerned.

 

He shrugged them off, and pulled himself off the ground, pulling a rubber band out of his pocket to tie his shoulder length hair back. He did his rounds, gathered a few items (scissors, acetone, paper, ink, cardboard) and left a bit early, slipping around his boss, he  yelling that he should get back to work. He flipped him off over his shoulder, not caring if he would be fired. He did not need this job anymore, anyways.

 

His head ached as he returned home, trimming his hair a bit, pulling Ricardo’s suit jacket out of his valise, blocking up his sink and filling it with acetone, dipping in the jacket to bleach it, getting it to a grey. Draining out the acetone, he recut and restitched the lapel, tucking it carefully into the inside. Then he added the ink, leaving the suit a dark blue, and the lapel a smooth grey.

 

Done.

 

Now for anonymity.

 

He took the scissors in his hand again, cutting the cardboard and inking over certain parts, smiling at his completed handiwork.

 

He went to the recently founded Little Miracles Television company, a cardboard Bendy mask covering his face.

 

Showcasing the new toons, the Bendy short that he had just made, his charismatic attitude easily winning over the executives whose meeting he so gracefully interrupted, he left the building with a pep in his step, a signed contract in his favor in a briefcase marked with a freshly copyrighted logo, and a grin behind a cardboard mask.

 

He made a few purchases in town, a used projector and a used lighttable.

 

He tossed his head back and laughed, kicking his heels, dancing through the streets until he found himself on the path to the abandoned apartment building he called home. He slowed, smile fading as he remembered the letter from ‘home’ that he had thrown away that morning.

 

A scowl soon replaced his fading grin, and a cloud seemed to sit on his brow, though his happy go lucky mask concealed any emotion as such.

 

Now the question, what to do what steps to take.

 

He will decide later, he decided.

 

He trudged up the steps, his legs aching with the strength of a thousand moons, waxing and waning with each step he took.

 

He flopped back onto the blanket he used instead of a mattress, waving a hand to summon his computer.

 

Nothing came to his hand.

 

A chill of realization crept over him, snaking around his heart.

 

He had not made it yet, and he would not have the opportunity to do so in a long while.

 

The wires were easy enough to obtain, but…

 

He did not have enough for a typewriter yet. Maybe he could take one from work? Maybe… but still… another projector…. He winced merely thinking about the expenses that would hit him with.

 

His heart ached when he understood that he would be unable to afford it for a long, long time.

 

Panic slowly settled in.

 

He was trapped. He was stuck, he was given no room to move or maneuver. He shook with the thought. Normally he would be able to leave his black and white and grey world, leaving behind the bare tinges of blue, diving into color and meeting himself over and over, growing and changing. Another spurt of panic ran over him when he noticed gaps in his memory, just blank spaces from the previous world he had been in, gone.

 

Feuds, friendships, growth and change, missing.

 

Not that they did not exist.

 

He just could not remember.

 

It terrified him.

 

Until…

 

He remembered that he himself changed. He no longer was the man before, as now, he was no toy or doll to be used and played with, ordered about.

 

He did not have to listen to anyone, ever again. His connection, with his new knowledge and new volition, had evolved.

 

This was his choice.

 

He will get the computer later. Now, he can accept life, and he was eager to see the change that would come of this world.

 

He, his, but who is he?

 

Well, I suppose….

 

You could ask who he is.

 

‘Oh, him?’ they will point and ask back. In affirmative, they will tell you, ‘Why, that’s just Joey Ramirez. He works in the papermill, and makes cartoons for it. Not the moving cartoons, heavens no, just the funny little tidbits.’

 

If you ask who does make the moving cartoons, they will shrug, and inform you that those are just broadcasted by the Little Miracles Company. They could be the same man, Joey Drew and Johan Ramirez. It was a joke in the papermill. Everyone knew that  Johan Ramirez was just far too busy to be doing that.

 

Though it seemed ironic that the characters of the show and comic were one and the same, and neither got a copyright notice. Perhaps it was a syndicate.

 

He seemed happy, at least a bit. He seemed shaken by something.

 

He always went to the park at lunch time on tuesday, meeting with a short blonde man with strawberry wisps in his curls, the two chatting quietly, sitting close. The blonde man is short, stout, fair skinned, with oval glasses. These glasses are normal. He appears to be in the medical field, his stethoscope often left on his shoulders.

 

We will go back to him later.

 

Rather, he will reenter this narrative.

 

A quick reminder, though all seems wonderful and glorious, this is. Not. A. Happy. Story.

 

His story cannot be happy.

 

Continuing with his coworkers description of him (though I have a far more thorough one, and you possibly know him quite well, or you skipped ahead to this part of the reality, instead of reading the awful first chapter. If you did skip to here, I applaud you. It is a much better time, this one.), he was not a normal being.

 

He never seemed to eat, one might comment.

 

He was a fairy, another would remark in a sadistic, gleeful, tone.

 

Something was off in his head, would be added on.

 

Too tall.

 

Too thin.

 

When he came in, shamefaced, in a wheelchair, with his bandaged arm in a sling, no one was surprised. Everyone knew he had poor health.

 

No one cared.

 

When he came in smelling of smoke, and not the cigarette smoke from the tobacco he never touched, but the smoke of burning wood, glass, and film, no one was surprised. Everyone knew he worked with projectors unprofessionally.

 

No one cared.

 

The breakdown made them care.

 

No, not care, worry.

 

Worry for themselves.

 

It was a silent breakdown.

 

He, in his wheelchair, tears streaming down his face, working on the papers in the machine. It was common to watch him cry as he worked, from the machines and cuts and loud noise.

 

This was different.

 

His entire hand had been sliced, tearing open the skin, bone showing through, and he had not even noticed, continuing to work as red and black stained his white work shirt.

 

Tears dripped slowly down his face as he worked, not a drop of the blood and dark, unearthly substance seeping from his veins landing on the papers he dealt with. As he worked, one kind, blessed soul, attempted to near him, but recoiled from a sensation of sadness, a sinking, disparaging, permeating miasma of melancholy encircling the young man.

 

Tightly, like a noose.

 

Quietly, the workers feared that if he would get sadder, he would end up making them all infected with his strange sickness.

 

One threw a paper at him, and the sadness vanished into confusion. Looking at his hand, he quickly went over to the first aid station to fix himself up. He was quiet and thinking as he wrapped his hand.

 

He requested a short vacation to visit his family, and was given it, partially out of fear, mostly out of pity.

 

When he returned, he was changed.

 

Happiness came to him.

 

A realization that he could do what he wanted, and he did not have to listen to orders anymore.

 

He smiled a lot more.

 

His pin was always shiny, his eyes sparkled, and the Bendy toons were produced more often.

 

There was another joke that according to Johan’s mood, the toons would be done, and workers often placed bets around that.

 

He became someone they wanted to be around.

 

He was kind, charismatic, and funny.

 

He always took the best out of terrible situations.

 

Such as the one that reunited him with the man he saw as his uncle.

 

Johan, covered with ink, but laughing with the absurdity of the situation, reported a malfunction in one of the machines.

 

His boss told him that he could get overtime if he waited for the mechanic to come, and he shrugged with a ‘Why not?’

 

So he waited and read one of the newspapers.

 

It was a satirical, but that does not matter.

 

What matters was he was giggling to himself when the repairperson came.

 

She gaped at him, eyes narrow and studying, wondering if she had seen him before.

 

Where she had seen him before.

 

She knew that giggle very well, but from where, from when, from how, those were the questions swirling in hir head. She cleared hir throat, getting him to jolt a bit and meet hir eye with a sheepish grin.

 

Said smile ebbed away swiftly, seemingly recognizing hir as well.

 

“Mx. Benton…?” he asked, but it was not a question of affirmal. It was a question of disbelief, shock at having seen someone rise from the dead. “I uh, I mean, I was….”

 

She squinted at him.

 

“Joey?” she murmured, like in a dream. “Joey Drew.”

 

He bit his lip.

 

“At your service.”

 

An hour later there were two beings in a cafe. There were more than two, of course, but there were two that we are talking about. Lacie sipped hir coffee while Johan drank his tea, eagerly telling hir all his happenings.

 

She laughed, gasped, groaned, and giggled, as he animatedly divulged his expenditures.

 

Then she excused hirself for about fifteen good minutes, and returned with a smug smile.

 

Johan’s faded.

 

Lacie reseated hirself and ordered two more drinks, another coffee for hirself and another, with extra whip and sugar, added sage and peppermint.

 

Joey knew that rather extravagant coffee.

 

Only the most extravagant of men drank that coffee.

 

“You… you called….”

 

She grinned wider.

 

A cab pulled up and a man whose hair shined so bright it seemed violet came out of hit, his suit rumpled from his haste.

 

He took his coffee from a swooning waiter, signing the check with a wink.

 

The waiter screamed in his throat and hugged the signature to his chest.

 

“Might want to put on that mask of yours, Johan,” he chuckled as he sat. “Unless we go now, and avoid the reporters and paparazzi.”

 

Johan swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding and standing. The three quickly left, the man handing the lad that served them a real autograph.

 

The lucky boy screamed and punched out early to pin it to his wall.

 

“Taxi!”

 

Very soon they were in his office. Blueprints and certificates on the wall, models scattered on shelves.

 

Joey looked around as though he were in a daze.

 

He looked to the man behind him.

 

Rusty brown eyes watched him, dream like.

 

Joey tried to smile at him, but his lip quivered.

 

The shorter man also gave a wavering smile.

 

His arms opened.

 

Johan’s sight of him blurred, with salty, bittersweet, reuniting tears.

 

“Uncle Bertie!” Joey sobbed, running over to him, crashing into him, wrapping his long arms around him. Bertrum grunted with the sudden jolt, and blinked.

 

And hugged him back.

 

He rocked with him, a slow sweep.

 

They spoke not in words, but in happy sounds and laughing tears, both understanding, both feeling, both knowing and exhilarated to be in arm with each other.

 

It did not matter where either of them had been, it mattered that they were safe and together.

 

They could ask questions later, they had their whole lives given to them again for their family to stick together and bond.

 

Bertrum sat him down and spoke with him softly, leaning close to each other as they quietly discussed life and how things were going for them.

 

Bertrum gave him the deeds to the plot of the studio.

 

Staring at it, Johan felt a smile bloom across his face.

 

He hugged him tightly with a promise to come over for dinner with his Uncle Bertie and Aunt Lacie, and ran out, sprinting happily to the studio that he now owned again.

 

Moving out of the old abandoned apartment a second time, setting up his work stations.

 

Animation table.

 

Projection room.

 

Recording studio.

 

Future computer room.

 

Setting up his home.

 

Putting his mask on and ordering a custom sign for the building.

 

Going downtown, buying the dirt cheap refrigerator, mattress, and other home supplies.

 

(And a cookbook.)

 

Putting everything in without a crew.

 

Fists over his hips, he beamed up at the two story building, remembering the blueprint he had planned to add to it, building down to build up.

 

The empty parking, empty beside the motorbike he managed to recover from the pawn shop he had begrudgingly sold it to when he came to New York, deciding at the time he needed food more than he needed relatively free transportation.

 

He could walk, he reasoned, while buying it back.

 

Going over to the motorcycle and patting it, he examined it, planning on upgrading it when he could get his hands on the parts.

 

Boosters might be a good idea, to make it easier to get out of a fix.

 

He grinned as he recalled the moment he wanted to kick himself for being an idiot, how easily he could make his computer with no losses.

 

He slipped inside to his projection room, and tore the mounted light from its stand, and attached it to the screen of his computer, turning it on and restoring the programming, and simply reprogramming a new projector, and then the parts for upgrading his bike’s thrusters.

 

He took the projector and the parts, placing the new screen carefully onto the stand, making sure it worked before going out and changing his motorcycle.

 

And the empty patch beside the lot.

 

He gazed at it, and took the dirt into his hand.

 

Slight frost.

 

Last one of the year, just at the bend of spring rising.

 

Several rosebuds were planted that day, Johan pushing himself off the ground, dusting off his grey pants, leaning on the trellis he installed for some roses, the future climbing bushes planned to grow all the way up to the roof of the building, not only for the roses to grow to the sky, but tightly attached to the wall so Joey himself could rise above and gaze out to the city.

 

He had his studio, his motorcycle, his computer, his roses, his life.

 

He was successful, he was safe, he was happy, sure, he had a double life, but he was in control of this one. This was his choice, his ability.

 

His studio, his home, once again there for him, always sturdy and strong, ready to grow and expand right along with him.

 

His motorcycle, to speed and think, to think and think as endless road stretches on and on, the road of his hope and dreams before him.

 

His computer, to create, to create! once more, to repair his mistakes, to invent and be free and able to go and grow and breathe. Yes, he did not recall many of the codes and programs but he was certain that he would learn them sooner rather than later. Still stuck in his own world, but that was fine. He was in control of his mind, and could learn and relearn what was needed.

 

And his roses! His roses, those that would literally grow with him, the work of his hands, the spark of life and rebirth, roses, roses, teas and bouquets, roses.

 

Ah, how he missed them.

 

His life… for once in his hands.

 

He swung his legs as he sat on the edge of the roof, the door beside him and the trellis a few feet away. The sun slowly set behind him, the moon rising before him, the stars glinting above him, his future beneath him. He laughed, and cried, and breathed, and held his breath, laying and dancing on the roof, solitary and accompanied by angels, demons, and the stars.


	2. Fire, Water, and Ink

The death threats were surprising, at least a little bit at first. But then they became more and more frequent, and he no longer cared.

 

And they were rather childish, too.

 

Cut from newspaper shreds and pasted sloppily onto a piece of salty scrap paper sloppily, it did not matter much to Johan.

 

He felt safe, even though much of his knowledge had been temporarily… relocated. 

 

Johan laughed it off when he met with Henry at the park, though the other man seemed perturbed by the little paper.

 

“It’s a bad sign, Johan,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t like it.”

 

“Oh, please, who on earth would assume that Joey Drew lives in his g-gosh diddly darn studio?” Johan chuckled, rolling his eyes. “I’m perfectly s-safe, sweetheart.”

 

“Joey, what if they do find out?” Henry pressured. “Who knows who this is, and you have no way of protecting yourself.”

 

“Yes I do,” Joey lied, avoiding meeting his eyes. “I-I have my sh-shotgun.”

 

“Which you told me that you returned to your brother when you visited Night Vale.”

 

“Oh… I told you that?”

 

“No, I guessed, actually.”

 

“You sneaky animator….”

 

“You gullible artist.”

 

Johan sighed, crumpling the death threat in a fist, tossing it into a trash bin a few meters away. 

 

“Joey, I really don’t trust this stuff,” Henry stirred, restarting the conversation. Johan’s ears flicked back in minor annoyance, releasing a huff. “Seriously, as your doctor, I dictate this as bad for your health.”

 

“You’re not a doctor yet, Stein,” Joey retorted in a warning tone. “You still haven’t gotten that f-fancy schmancy degree of yours yet.”

 

“Oh, you be quiet,” Henry grumbled, running a hand through his curls. Joey chuckled at his insulted expression. “Don’t remind me. We still need to study for my next exam.”

 

“What’s it on again? Muscles?” Johan tilted his head, bright eyes glinting as he looked at the rather short future doctor. “Or is it on joints?”

 

“Muscles, I’m pretty sure,” Henry replied, stretching, his hand coming to rest on Joey’s shoulder. “Joints is the next exam.”

 

“Mhm.” Joey yawned, sharp white teeth glinting slightly in the afternoon sun’s shine. “What d-do you think, Henry? About… about D-Disney and Fleischer? Should I really-ly, truly be worried about a little bit of c-competition? I think it’s good for the industry.”

 

“What you think and what they think are entirely different things, Joey,” Henry informed him with a measure of tiredness. “We don’t know what they’d be willing to do. They threatened to kill you, Joey… like, damn, that’s a step too far, don’t you think?”

 

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “They also didn’t explicitly say they’d kill me, they just said that ‘I should stop making toons or else’. There’s a lot of things th-that can f-fall into ‘else’, you know.”

 

“I know,” Henry answered, leaning his head against Johan’s heart. “I’m just… just worried about you. I don’t want you to get hurt, especially not because of this, because of drawing and doing what you love….”

 

“Henry, it’s f-fine,” Joey tried to reassure him. “I’m fine. It’s okay. We can do this, together.”

 

“I sure hope so,” Henry murmured, shaking his head slowly, eyes closed. “I really do.”

 

They soon parted, Joey having to return to the studio and Henry to school, though they walked together for as much as they could, chatting quietly about the world and their worlds together alone, the cartoon universes that they flourished together. Joey giggled at one of Henry’s quips, and made an easy pun as a reply, so normal and casual for them both that they could ignore the fact that none of the time they had together was permanent. Johan was afraid. But also, excited. They were making the world anew, a fresh start, a second wind.

 

Johan’s hair fluttered in the air, the breeze ruffling his wisps. Henry was illuminated by the sun, a halo of mist around him, like an ethereal faery, and yet they stalked together, a shadow and a beam, so entwined it was impossible to tell who was which. Henry’s large and smooth palms reached for Joey’s long and calloused fingers, wrapping around them like a babe might for comfort, a gesture soon returned with a quick squeeze by Joey. As they neared the point where they would have to split, their shared grip grew tighter, ever more reluctant to part. They stood in silence at the street corner, each looking it the direction that the other would need to go, and simultaneously looking at the other. Bright sky blue eyes caught rose red ones, fastening them together even more. 

 

“Well,” Joey cleared his throat, smiling weakly and waveringly. “Don’t be late to class, darling.”

 

“And you,” Henry patted Joey’s hand, cocooning it for a few moments, “Don’t get killed on the way back home, okay? It would be a mighty big shame and a huge loss for the world.”

 

“I won’t,” Johan promised with a nearly blinding grin, eyes crinkling slightly. “It’s not as easy as you might think to get rid of me, you know.”

 

“Yeah,” Henry’s smile faded slightly, and he reached up to touch Johan’s cheek. “I know. I love you, Joey. You know that, right?”

 

“Of-f course I know that, I-I breathe it, it gives me life, and makes me feel, o-oh, so weightless,” Johan reveried to him, shoulders falling, smile growing, and brows knitting with genteelness. “My love to you in return is s-so very, very boundless. I could s-spend all eternity f-fêting you.”

 

“Cut the prose and poetry, Jo,” Henry chuckled, clearly not meaning it in the slightest, standing on tiptoe and pulling Johan down to kiss his chin, missing his cheek. “I keep forgetting that you’re trying to grow out your beard… hm… you’re going to have to lean down more often.”

 

Joey giggled, blushing, touching where Henry kissed him with two fingers, and he bowed to kiss Henry’s brow.

 

“For luck, sweetheart,” he told him, turning around to return home to bury his face in a pillow and explode with joy. Every moment was a blessing.

 

“Bye, Joey,” Henry called. “Love.”

  
  


There was a small crowd conglomerated around the door of the studio, murmuring and whispering uncomfortably.

 

Johan sighed and ducked around a corner, pulling his mask out of his pocket, a pocket that clearly should not have been able to contain the Bendy face, additionally slipping on a pair of white gloves to complete the façade. He tapped the shoulder of the person closest to him of the crowd, and they turned around, and looked up, eyes widening, and then stepped aside for their boss with a nod. The coterie split, a red sea for a chosen personage. 

 

Similar to the red sea, there was a desert before him at the end.

 

There was a knife stabbed into the door of Joey Drew Studios. 

 

Not a bird chirped, not a dog barked, not a single one of Joey’s hundreds of bees bumbled, complete silence reigned over the expanse before the empty studio.

 

“Why is no one going inside?” Joey asked Ms. Lampbert, who stood beside him. She shifted. “Well? Is there a specific reason that we’re avoiding making the best damn cartoons around?”

 

A murmur swept through the mass, everyone looking up at the gentle giant that lead them with complete and total penchant. Joey’s mask smiled as he did, enchanted to copy his expressions. The uneasy plethora of people relaxed and smiled back. They could feel that they were in good hands, they all knew that Joey loved them all, and cared for each of them to the depths of his tremendous beating heart.

 

“We are a studio,” Joey spoke, head held high, slender fingers plucking the knife out of the door, pulling away the note stabbed into it and crumpling it, tossing it to the ground. “We are artists, creators, magicians of the screen!”

 

“And of the heart!” Jack Fain chimed in, grinning. “And who knows what black magic and tricks you’ve got up your sleeve, Mr. Drew.”

 

“Absolutely!” Johan beamed back, laughing for a few moments, plucking a yellow rose out of his pocket and tossing it to the bear of a man. Some of the junior animators giggled with delight as he bowed toward them. “We are prodgedies! We are the face of the new animation industry! Youthful, yet with our elders to guide us, a huge thank you to Mr. Polk, Mr. Cohen, Mx. Benton, and of course, my dear Uncle Bertie!”

 

Applause ripped through the motley crew, enthusiastic and energized.

 

“We’ve had a lovely late start today, a nice after weekend gift from all of us for our hard work,” Joey gestated, beginning to walk through the assembled workers. “Are we going to let this flimsy piece of metal stop us from working hard, working happy, and spreading smiles all around?”

 

“No!” was the resounding call back. Joey lifted the knife and stabbed it into an Alder tree. 

 

“So let’s go in, and make some toons, eh?” Joey grinned at everyone, stalking through the group, opening the door for everyone. He nodded, and that was the end of that. A small hand grabbed his sleeve as the studio all filed in and punched in. Joey looked down to see Linda gripping his sleeve, looking up at him with big hazel eyes. He patted her head. “What are you up to, my darling little Linda?”

 

“Nothin’ much,” she replied, smiling at him sweetly. “Are you gonna be making the toy store yet, Uncle Joey?”

 

He reached under his mask to run his fingers over his beard, looking up to the ceiling as he slowly walked with the young girl. “I’m working on it, but I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get it up and running… I haven’t found the right worker for the zone. I’m still waiting for the correct candidates, you know.”

 

“Can I help?” Linda asked, skipping ahead to walk backwards in front of him. “I’m a good people person, right?”

 

“That you are,” Joey chuckled at her lively antics. “What’s your favorite up and coming toy idea?”

 

“I like the little robot Alice!” she excitedly replied, referring to the miniature model of the animatronic in Johan’s workstation. Joey blinked, storing that information away. “I think that it’s really cool to be able to talk to your toys and hear them reply!”

 

“Sounds good,” Joey nodded, the cogs of his mind churning a vast multitude of ideas and concepts to approach and tackle. He hummed as she and he walked together through the corridors, greeting the employees they passed, Linda receiving many hugs and slipped a lot of candies. Joey chuckled as Linda devoured another chocolate. “Henry’s gonna kill me for this.”

 

“So?” she asked, her mouth covered with the sugary cream. “I’m only five!”

 

“He’s going to accuse me of corrupting his prodigy,” Joey solemnly countered, but he grinned and winked, the mask still copying his expressions. “So… keep it hush hush.”

 

“Got it,” Linda smirked. “I’ll make sure he never learns of this.”

 

“That sounds vaguely threatening,” Joey remarked.

 

Linda’s smirk only turned to a wide toothy grin.

 

Eventually, Joey passed the duty of watching over Linda to Lacie and Bertrum, as the two of them never worked manually at the same time, as to enable them to be at their maximum efficiency.

 

And Joey went down, down, down, all the way down to his office.

 

He frowned at the mess on his desk.

 

Papers, papers, bills, documents, copyrights… there was so much to do.

 

He grabbed his computer.

 

when; (AtDesk), (papers);

SORT: (PRIORITY1, PRIORITY-1)

 

To his dismay, another crudely written death threat was on the top of the now arranged stacks of paperwork. His shoulders slumped, and Gracehopper landed on the threat. Joey frowned. If even she was saying that it was urgent, it seemed to certainly be so. 

 

He sighed and picked it up, smoothing it out and adjusting his glasses under his mask.

 

_ If you don’t go public with who you are, there will be a reconing.  _

 

  * __Disney and Fleischer__



 

 

Johan burst out laughing. 

 

Not even checking their spelling! How bloody absurd!

 

Shaking his head and chuckling to himself, he threw it away.

 

Gracehopper returned it to his desk.

 

He frowned at the moth.

 

“Come now, it’s just a paper,” Joey rolled his eyes, his mask quite comically mimicking the action. “There’s nothing they can do to me.” 

 

Gracehopper fluttered at him angrily. 

 

“Fine, fine, I’ll read it again,” he grumbled, feeling chastised. He scanned over it. Nothing changed. What was he supposed to be looking for? He turned over the paper. What was that in the corner? He squinted at it, trying to make out the faded writing. His expression vanished. He blinked, rereading the small lettering. “What…?”

 

_ Flynn Brothers Syndicated. _

 

A lump grew in Joey’s throat.

 

No, Disney and Fleischer would not resort to that, right? They would not, would they…?

 

But it was written, clear as day, on the backside bottom corner, tucked away innocuously. 

 

Johan trembled in his chair, staring at the lettering. 

 

His hands shook, and his mouth dropped open in shock. 

 

What was he going to do?

 

He quickly stood up, feeling a rush of dizziness, and he berated himself for not eating. His legs shot up a spike of pain, and he wobbled uneasily. 

 

Still, he rushed out of his office, running down to Bertrum’s work area.

 

“Uncle Bertie,” he huffed, out of breath. “I… I… um….” 

 

The Bendy Land workers stared at him and Bertrum. Joey blushed, hoping that it would not show up on his mask. 

 

“Maybe we should go somewhere else to discuss this….” Joey mumbled, feeling eyes on him. Bertrum studied his posture, and he nodded, briskly leading Johan to his office. Joey shuttered the blinds when they got in. “It’s about the threats.”

 

“I thought you said that they were of no concern?” Bertrum interrogated, lifting an eyebrow. Johan wordlessly passed him the note, pointing at the concerning bit hiding in the corner. Bertrum’s brows rose, and he frowned. “Well, this is serious….”

 

“I’m… I’m f-frightened,” Johan told him, his natural stutter slipping into his voice. “Th-they’re really doing this, are, are they?”

 

“It appears so,” Bertrum scowled, tossing the paper on his desk. “But… I think the safest place is the studio. It’s unsuspecting.”

 

“Okay, o-okay, it’s fine,” Johan tried to assure Bertrum, but seemed to be assuring himself even more. “I’ll be fine… r-right?”

 

“I… I don’t know,” Bertrum confessed. “I don’t know the ‘future’ anymore, Johan. Not since you broke the loops.”

 

“Henry and I,” Joey corrected, raising a finger. Bertrum huffed a small laugh, leaning against the wall. “What, it’s t-true!”

 

“Yes, yes, I know,” Bertrum nodded, smiling at him softly. Joey relaxed. “Still… I don’t want you attracting any extra attention. Pretend to leave to go ‘home’, and then go back late at night.”

 

“Sounds… sounds good,” Joey shakily replied. Bertrum clapped him on the shoulder and smiled at him waveringly. 

 

Joey mustered one back.

 

The first day after the letter was received, nothing happened. Nor the second, or the third, but Joey could not shake the feeling of being watched. His hands were constantly trembling, and even Buddy noted the shaky quality of his storyboarding. He could hardly eat, barely slept, and his bees swirled around him in an attempt to comfort him and protect him, though they were but small insects. And yet, despite the safety of the city, the elusiveness of his residence, the confidence in his own power, he still worried. There was no way to avoid the terror within his own thoughts, and it consumed his strength and sapped his sanity. 

 

Bertrum commented on it, and stormed his apartment, a small heated argument between them as he packed up a suitcase of Johan’s things, shoving it against the tall young man’s chest, demanding he go to Grant’s over the Sabbath. Joey protested, reluctant to put the accountant and his family in danger, a danger Lacie waved off, explaining that there was no way the Flynn Syndicate would go near that section of town to look for “Joey Drew”. Then he was pushed out the door of his studio.

 

And so, there he was with his hair combed back, sitting at the table as the candles burned on the stand. Grant and Carl returned from synagogue. He listened to the quiet songs of greeting Grant and his wife Sori sang, their great nephew Carl doing a small solo of Lecha Dodi for them. Johan vibrated in tune, and his hands were stopped from clapping, Grant shaking his head at him with twinkling eyes. Sori pulled a book from the shelf, showing Johan where it was shown that clapping was not allowed on Shabbat.

 

“So how do you applaud on Shabbat, then?” Joey asked, perplexed. “Do you just… cheer or something?”

 

“Clap on the back of your hand,” Carl intoned, his voice melodious. “Like an evil villain.”

 

“Carl!” Sori scolded, but with a gentle smile. “Though yes, this is the way.”

 

After the zemirot, Grant blessed Carl, then got up to say kiddush.

 

“Hineh e-l yeshuati….”

 

Johan listened closely.

 

He could partially understand the ancient words said, knowing them from the bygone days of reconstructing them.

 

A cup of grape juice was passed to him, and he sipped before thanking them. 

 

They washed for challah, and then the real meal began. 

 

Unlike his usual self, he helped himself to chicken and other non vegetarian foods, taking in the flavor and aroma.

 

The conversation and laughter flowed with complete and total ease.

 

Joey felt… so safe. 

 

He watched the candles sink into wax, dipping lower and lower. Sori excused herself on account of her invalidity, and bid them a good night. Grant leaned back in a chair, instructing Carl on his leining. Johan curled up on the couch to intrude on the lesson. 

 

After setting aside the book, Grant teasingly questioned Carl and Johan about their dating lives. The two younger’s eyes met, and they broke out in soft nervous laughter. 

 

“Johan if you’re with my nephew I’m going to have to ask you to leave this house this instant,” Grant joked with a straight face. Joey paled and began to stutter out that he never even met Carl before that day, and Grant rolled his eyes and laughed. “I’m only joking, Joey.”

 

“O-oh! Oh….” Joey smiled sheepishly. “S-sorry.”

 

“Don’t apologize,” Carl chuckled. “You haven’t done any harm.”

 

“R-right,” Joey agreed after a moment, exhaling slowly. “Right.”

 

“You tired, Mr. Drew?” Carl asked, looking to his great uncle. “I can show you to the guest room, if you are.”

 

“W-well, somewhat,” he admitted. “But no m-matter, I, I’ll go to bed at the same time as you both.”

 

“Mhm….” Grant patted his hand. “Whatever you’d like, dear Joey.”

 

“I’ll wait,” he promised, yawning slightly. “Though my head is muddled, so… I can’t think too st-straight.”

 

“That’s alright,” Grant said. He gently tapped Carl’s shoulder. “Why, I forgot to mention this - Carl is also going into the entertainment industry. He and a friend are going to make a puppet show.”

 

“Really now?” Johan perked up, smiling lopsidedly. “That sounds fantastic.”

 

“It is!” Grant answered, bristling with pride. “He carves all of them.”

 

“Astounding,” Joey murmured, looking at Carl with admiration. “I think that being able to use your hands in your craft is absolutely a n-necessity. Aside from mathematical fields, of c-course. For those you need a good-d head!”

 

“Joey, now you’re just soft soaping,” Grant rumbled, rolling his eyes. Joey caught Carl’s gaze and winked at him. “But you’re not wrong, that’s a fact.”

 

“Feter, I’m feeling drowsy,” Carl yawned, his austrian accent slipping into his words. “It’s late. I think that I will go to bed.”

 

“Fine with me,” Grant nodded, standing, proffering a hand to Joey to help him up, which the lanky lad gratefully took. “Carl will show you to your room.”

 

“Thank you,” Joey nodded, holding onto Carl’s shoulder to steady himself on his weak legs. “Have a good night, Mr. Cohen.”

 

“You as well, Joey, Carl,” he yawned. “Shacharit is at eight tomorrow, so don’t oversleep, young one.”

 

“I won’t, feter,” Carl responded dutifully, smiling with a small nod to the older man. “Gute nacht.”

 

Joey and Carl entered the room they both were staying in, and Carl lead Joey to the secondary guest bed. 

 

Johan whispered a quiet thanks, and Carl hummed in reply.

 

A bit of candle light flickered on Carl’s nightstand, he flicking through the pages of a novel or medrish, the segmental sounds lulling Joey to a deep calm, his red eyes drifting shut in the orange light. Just before he was about to drop off into sleep, a sharp tap on the window ruined his slowing heartbeat, jump starting it. He grew very still, very afraid, but Carl merely glanced at him, as though checking that he was still sleeping, and crept to the window, slipping it open. A tan face greeted his olive one, and they fell into a low conversation, keeping themselves quiet so as to not disturb Joey.

 

Tan hands met pale ones, and their foreheads touched, even as their lips still murmured little words. Carl smiled, and the other man kissed his cheek.

 

“Soon, soon,” he said, and grinned. “Just a little bit longer, and I will have the cash for the building. I got this. Trust me.”

 

“Always, Buddy,” Carl whispered back. “I’m so excited. I’ll see you at shacharit tomorrow. We can talk more after then. I love you.”

 

“I love you, too,” the so called Buddy responded, giving his hands a little squeeze. “You keep healing up. I’ll see you soon.”

 

And then he slipped away, Carl waving him off and closing the window.

 

A little urge to tease sprang up in Joey’s chest. The words slipped out before he could check himself.

 

“Ooh, someone’s just had a rendezvous,” he sing songed in a quiet tone. Carl turned around quickly and blushed, shushing Joey by putting a hand on his mouth. When he took it away, Joey smiled at him, squinting and curling up in his blankets. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

 

“Good.” Carl smiled.

  
  


After spending most of his time outside of his studio for the better half of a month, he finally returned to his very nearly spotless apartment, instantly messing it up by tossing his suit jacket onto the couch, and leaving a drunk glass of tea on the table (also not cleaning up the teapot or honey jar he used). A spider had made its home on the sill of his window while he was gone, and he did not have the heart to take it away, and instead gave it a small smile and a naughty bug he found attacking one of his strawberries as he was weeding them in the evening. A computer bug, that is. He had been spotting them more and more often around, and he took it as a good sign. It meant that his powers were waxing, and he was able to fix his mistakes faster and better. Or it just meant he was getting sick again. Either or. It did not matter much to him. It was not his fault he was happy, and therefore putting more time and effort into things he preferred. You could perhaps blame him, but would that really be kind? Or proper? Gee, ain’t that unbiased?

 

He should have known that others would not be happy with his contented state.

 

He should have been more cautious.

 

But should he have?

 

Was there a choice?

 

He tried to be as careful as he could be, retracting steps, hiding connections, pretending to get into cabs to slip out the other door. 

 

There was a creak on the stairs. 

 

Johan froze. He grabbed the shovel he started using as a self defence weapon and crept toward the stairs. He immediately backtracked in the direction of the window with the trellis, and threw the shovel the door.

 

A loud swear emanated from it, and Johan jumped out the window, swinging onto the climbing vines, and attempted a quick ascent. A pale hand swiped at his ankle, trying to drag him back. A thorn pricked his thumb, and a globule of blood welled up. Bad luck, he registered, feeling a dizzying sensation rush through his body. Oh, how terribly he loathed  the sight of his own blood!

 

He scrambled upwards as fast as he could physically could, his hand brushing the roof, about to pull pull himself up onto it, and

 

His legs gave out.

 

With a shriek, he lost his balance, and crashed downward, landing heavily into his rose bushes at the base of his building. 

 

He groaned from the pokey feeling pricking his his body, having torn his shirt in his descent, but was grateful that they stopped him from breaking something. Like his back. He tried to push himself up, but his legs collapsed, leaving him curled up on the dirt and pebble path. He gasped, trembling, muttering curses in all the languages he knew as he remained there, paralyzed in pain and agony, forced to wait it out.

 

Sirens ran in his mind, he was in danger, and he could hardly move to get away. 

 

The Flynn syndicate! Seriously? Of all the criminals and hitmen out there, why did it have to be them? Why? The one sect he would never dare to hurt in any which way, shape, or form? The ones he once loved as brothers, those who forgot who he was as he desperately tried to save them? Why them, why them?

 

Cursing his legs, he forced himself up, thorns scratching his palms. Some blood stained his shirt, and he pulled his mask on to shield himself from any hits to the face or whatnot. 

 

He slowly crept outward toward his bee hives, just for some protection and hoping no one would look for him there, even though he knew it was a false hope. He, in his heart, just wanted a little bit of peace before the end.

 

He hobbled to the apiary, and sank against it, inhaling the smell of honey and wood. 

 

Johan’s breathing slowed as he relaxed, no longer fighting the inevitable.

 

“Is that him?” he heard. His nose dripped blood. He tried to stand, tried to make one last fighting breath. As he rose to his full height, there was a short laugh. “That’s definitely him.”

 

“I hate Disney,” Joey muttered under his breath, scowling behind his mask. “And Fleisher can kiss my ass, if he’s even tall enough to do that.”

 

The hive hummed behind him. The eighteen year old entrepreneur glanced at it, gripping his cane tightly.

 

“Forgive me,” he sighed, hefting the cane up, back, and swinging it around. The buzz grew to a deafening roar as he smacked the honey generator with his cane. The speed the men slowly surrounded him reduced all the more as they warily noted the sound. And then the bees swarmed out, a buzzing, angry, hissing mass of madness and pain for those foolhardy enough to provoked those adorably irked hive minded beings of fluffy stinging. 

 

Irish screams and curses filled the air, and Johan tried to sneak away as the bees stung and swarmed around the Flynn syndicate. But then there was a tap on his shoulder, a punch on his eye, and he tried to run, but a red jumpsuit slammed into his vision, and then into his chest. He felt his ribs creak, and he worried that one or more broke. Then his back said hello to the ground, the air rushing out of his lungs. Stars danced in his eyes, and he went limp as his muscles all gave out at once. He was flipped onto his back, arms tightened behind his back.

 

“G-gently, please,” he muttered into the dirt his head was being held against. To his relief, the ropes were slackened. “Thank you.”

 

He was pulled up, lead backwards to a four wheeler, and jostled into a seat, two of the Flynn’s on either side of him. His head drooped, he panting as his heart and head pounded in an excruciating unison. Blood dripped from his nose and lip, staining his shirt.

 

The vehicle stopped, and he was dragged out of the car, pulled up stairs into an empty, unlight, and unwelcoming building. He shuddered as he was shoved into a chair, and his chest was constricted with rope, and he could viscerally feel each of his ribs move in his skin. Johan gasped, his breath hitching in aching pain, and he held it - knowing that continuing to breathe would only make it all the more worse. A hand reached around the band of his mask, and he panicked, thrashing his head to avoid being known for who he was.

 

“N-no! Please!” he cried out, begging his captor with a useless plea. “D-don’t! Please, please, don’t! Don’t! I-I’ll do anything, don’t take my mask!”

 

“Sorry, Mr. Drew, no can do,” a grim irish accented voice intoned as the hand gripping the mask pulled, and Johan felt his connection to the magical mask go taut, snapped, and became oh so limp. “Photography was requested, by his truly, the honorable Mr. Disney.”

 

“Honorable my ass!” Johan spat, a bit of blood escaping his lips. “Give me back my mask!”

 

Lights flashed on, most likely for the proof pictures the Flynn syndicate planned on taking.

 

“Fuck! Sh-Shit!” Joey thrashed, and writhed, twisting and yanking on his bonds. “Damnit, fuck! Sh-Shawn, lemme go, let me go!”

 

His cheeks were suddenly grabbed and held, blue grey eyes staring deeply into his own.

 

“Johan…” Joey shivered as Shawn breathed his name. It felt like something was right in the world, clicking firmly into place. “Shite, you’re so… young.”

 

“Yer like a kid!” Marvin gasped, gawking at him. He came closer to inspect him better. “... damnit, you are a kid! How old are you, Joey? Sixteen?!”

 

“Eighteen!” Johan corrected him with some offense. “Give me some credit, for heaven’s sake! I have a g-goddamn beard and moustache! A-and I’ll be turning nineteen in like, uh, three weeks!”

 

“Still a baby,” Henrik firmly stated the plain fact. “Good god, you look so so young Johan….”

 

“I get it, I, I get it!” Johan desperately stuttered. “I look young! Okay! Fine!”

 

“We gotta sneak him out of here,” Sean told the others. “Like… this ain’t ok.”

 

“Agreed,” Jack nodded. “But how are we gonna do that?”

 

“I might just have an idea,” Chase muttered, looking at the overly large garbage can. “Might just have an idea….”

  
  


“I hate this, I despise this, this is a curse from the depths of hell,” Johan grumbled, tilting his head back to try to stop the trickle of blood from his nose. Robbie rolled his eyes and closed the lid of the trash can. “This is awful! You’re all p-prematurely fired!”

 

“Good luck with that,” Sean laughed, patting the garbage can. A growl emanated from it. “Ramirez, you can’t lie, you love us!”

 

“Screw you!” was Joey’s blunt reply, the tall man cramped from being stuffed into what felt like an actual box! A box, but it was a garbage bin! He felt humiliated, though he knew it was only to save his life, and knew no one was judging, after all, it was their idea. He muttered a few choice curses in spanish, throwing in some german ones before Henrik kicked the garbage to signal him to shut his mouth or pick a different language to soil. “Why am I in here, anyways? Why c-can’t I just, you know, leave?”

 

“Fleischer is on his way,” Shawn informed him. “We gotta sneak you out. There are spies all over the place. Dogs, too.”

 

“D-dogs?” Johan felt his mouth go dry with fear. “Wh-what kind of dogs?”

 

“Trained to catch outsiders,” Chase answered, peering out of the window. “We gotta fake some pictures now, lets go, dark room, make it look like the development went weird.”

 

‘Got it,’ Jameson signed to him, tipping his cap and slipping away to do that. 

 

“Now, we gotta split, Johan,” Shawn said. Joey mumbled in reply. “We’ll see you in a few days - gotta throw ‘em off your tail. Maybe head out of town for a bit, hide on the outskirts of Chicago or someplace like that.”

 

“Mm,” Johan managed to answer, his stomach turning. He curled up as much as he could in the trash can, and felt strangely, hilariously at home, though in an absurd and joking manner. It was not the first time he had been in a garbage bin, and it certainly was by far more comfortable than the previous times. “How long do I have to wait in-n here?”

 

“Until you get out of the building, so not too much,” Shawn answered. Johan could hear shuffling footsteps. “We’re gonna get to work, you just stay put for now.”

 

“Ok bye,” Joey grumbled, trying to get some rest, gingerly pressing on the skin about his eye, wincing and knowing there would be a big bruise there in the morning. Good thing he wore a mask, so no one would notice it. Hopefully. Norman probably would. The door clicked shut, and silence reigned. He tried to relax, and his eyes drifted shut, his aching limbs going numb in the small space of the trash bin. Who would be cleaning this up? Clearly someone the Flynns trusted, so Joey tried to put his trust in their hands, despite his anxiety over it. He breathed in and out, keeping quiet and calm. Footsteps approached, booted and stocky. Johan’s ears tilted, and he could identify one of the Frank’s twins, undoubtedly of the two this being Willy. A smile broke across his lips. Where there is smoke, there is fire, and in this case, where there is Shawn, there is Willy. Joey heard Willy pick up the note on the trash can, the one saying the bag was torn from glass, so the can should be taken out in full. Willy sighed, and set himself to work, lifting the garbage with ease. Joey could feel his heartbeat, mute to anyone but him. He felt… calm. Soon, Joey could feel the cool night air, and the garbage can was placed onto the pavement. Johan stuck his head out. “Thanks, Wilbur.”

 

“JOHAN!” Willy’s hand flew to his chest, and he took in gasping breaths. “You scared the shit outta me! What… what are you doing in there?”

 

“Escaping,” Joey replied, trying to get up, his numb legs merely allowing him to knock over the can. He just lay on the bottom. “Oof.” 

 

“Um. Do you want me to give you a lift?” Willy offered, furrowing his brow. “I just got an hour more of work to do.”

 

“No, I gotta bolt,” Joey wriggled out of the trash can, getting to his feet. “Let’s have some tea together on Monday? Like, three pm?”

 

“Oh, okay,” Willy replied, writing it on a scrapy notebook before turning to go. “See you then. Hey, watch out for the dogs, they’re… not fun to deal with.”

 

Joey shivered and paled, his trembling hand gravitating to his leg, “Thanks for the t-tip off….”

 

Willy gave him a two fingered salute before vanishing back into the looming building.

 

A bark caught Johan’s attention, and he leapt to his feet.

 

He trembled, trying to slip away from the heavily guarded facility.

 

Another bark, and he gasped, stilling. It was too close, too close.

 

He began to run, bolting as fast as he could, feet making nearly no sound as he dashed across the pavement. A bark, and he spun around to force the dog leaping at him away.

 

He screamed, seeing sharp teeth glinting, brown eyes looking pure red, and

 

He was on the Ramirez Estate and there was Paul’s laughter

 

He slammed against the ground, batting away the canine, and he scrambled away as fast as he could, jumping onto the fence, and climbing up as fast as he could, shaking from the barks and growls. A phantom pain grew in his leg, and he dropped down to the other side of the fence, limping away, panting.

 

Joey knew he had to get away.

 

A bark right in front of him made him jump into a tree, a different dog before him. 

 

“G-good dog,” he stuttered, trying to escape the animal. Both with wide eyes. Johan shakily reached his hand out. “Good g-girl… or boy… just… good dog….”

 

A gentle licking on his fingers.

 

He shook, but it faded away.

 

The dog walked him home, and… it was okay.

  
  


Johan relaxed with a cup of tea, petting Willy’s dog, Airgead. 

 

“How do we know each other, Joey?” Willy asked, holding onto Shawn’s hand. The irishman had a black eye but a toothy grin. Wally nodded to his brother’s question. “I know you, I know I do, but… how? How do we know each other?”

 

“It’s… it’s a long story,” Joey sighed, trying not to drown in his thoughts. “You know how… how I um. Messed up, very b-badly?”

 

“An understatement, to say the least,” Wally laughed. “I died!”

 

“At least he wasn’t the one who killed you,” Shawn snarked, tapping the back of Joey’s head. “I’ll never forget how that felt. Yeesh.”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Joey mumbled sheepishly. “I wasn’t okay….”

 

“We all know that,” Wally snorted. “Never really were, were you, Jo?”

 

“Probably not,” Johan sighed once more, feeling so alone in a room full of people. He was not much in the mood of being around others anymore. They laughed and chatted, and he wanted nothing more than to sink into the depths of the earth, never seen again, only surrounded by warmth. Airgead’s head plonked onto his lap, and he looked into the young dog’s eyes. Johan patted his head. Someone called his name. “Hm?”

 

“Go on,” Willy encouraged him, leaning back. “You messed up. Next?”

 

“Henry fixed it all up, and now we’re here,” Joey answered, and he wished that was the end of that. “Most of us haven’t mentally aged in that time, though, which I n-need to investigate more. It’s like w-we were in a stasis since 1929, and then when we came back, t-time continued on.”

 

“I guess that makes sense,” Marvin slowly stated, his brain going as fast as it could. “I mean… really would explain why I still feel young even though I should technically be thirty years older.”

 

“Yeah,” Joey trailed off, biting his lip. “I really was stuck being a teenager for thirty years… not recommended. You end up b-being foolish a-and blind.”

 

“Good to know,” Tian wryly replied, fiddling with his gauges. “Wasn’t really planning on doing somethin’ like that, you know.”

 

“I know,” Joey responded, feeling drained. He got up. “Anyone want any more tea? I’m going to get some m-more for myself.”

 

He left without another word, and sank against the wall of the Franks slash Flynn kitchen, breathing heavily. Gracehopper landed on his knee, trying to bring him some comfort, even a little bit. He gnashed his teeth, trying not to cry out loud, and he quickly rose, hands going to his mouth, and he ran out. He ran out of the house, and ran out of the lavender field it was surrounded by, and ran out of the city’s borders, running until he could hardly hear his thoughts, only the drumming of his feet hitting the ground, his weeping pants, and he ran until the shore of Manhattan Beach, fell to his knees, and screamed as loud as he could, his voice echoing over the ocean.

 

It was… terrifying… in such a comforting way. That there was something so much bigger and stronger than him, that could destroy him in moments, that he would simply drown away and never be found, discovering things that would never be spoken about just because their discoverer was dying, taking last glorious breaths of ocean water.

 

His head fell onto his chest, and he shook with silent sobs. The sun was on his back, setting slowly. His eyes rose to see the ocean, and he could see the red sunset reflected within it, and, while Johan was no sailor, he delighted in it. How similar he was to the ocean, that their eyes were one and the same, watery, weeping, unknown deaths hidden deep within their resecess, crying to those that would listen, and so powerfully alone. 

 

Joey slowly realized where he was with dismay, and begrudgingly got off of the sand, not bothering to brush it off, knowing that it would flake off on his long trek home, pulling his cloak around himself and his mask over his face, to be unfamiliar until home. Home sounded so wonderful. It sounded like Henry. Home, Henry, one and the same, though in two different places, but so similar. Firm like Henry, solid, comfortable, safe, all like him. Joey was lost in these thoughts as he slowly walked, or rather, limped his way back, knowing there were blisters on his feet and sunburn on his ears. His head was low, his eyes drooping. He was tired, but not badly so, the tiredness of ‘This is going to feel wonderful when my head hits the pillow’.

 

How had he run so far? How long was he running?

 

Miles?

 

He did know, and he breathed slowly as he slowly glided down the alleys. 

 

It was a gentle passing, he alone, he with nothing but the rising stars and moon.

 

Hours passed, time marked by his foot falls.

 

One foot in front of the other, some sand by his ankles, but not uncomfortably so, its presence oddly grounding. He walked, and walked. He passed the wharf closer to his studio, and froze, hearing murmuring voices. He made himself relax. It was just some random people. There was no need to be so nervous about everything and anything. The bridge’s wind was chilly, and he shivered, walking onwards. 

 

Looking out to the water beneath the bridge, he shuddered.

 

It looked like ink in the dark night, the black sky reflected in deep murky waters. He wondered what it was like beneath the quay, but for a brief moment. Water terrified him, as growing up in the desert, he never learned how to swim, and the rivers and oceans were so vast, dark, and horrifying, he never could bear the thought of learning now. But he leaned against the rail.

 

It was silent.

 

A hand clapped onto his mouth, another yanking back his arm, and he shrieked in pain, but it was muffled by the hand. Joey was bent over the rail, his heart pounding. He struggled against the gang that was busily restraining him, tying his feet together to a cement block and his hands behind his back. 

 

“Fleischer sends his regards,” was hissed in his ear, and he was yanked up by the cinderblock, thrown over the bridge. He screamed as he dropped to the water, and he felt it surge around his body, all encompassing and covering. Joey could vaguely hear above him laughter, and the sound of a car starting and going away. He cursed himself. He should have been more careful.

 

Panic was the next thing to fill him.

 

He. Could. Not. Breathe.

 

Writhing in the water, he looked around in a panic, everything blurry from not only his terrible vision but by the tumultuous waves above him. He felt a bump as the block hit the bottom of the river, and he closed his eyes, and would have wept if he could, but could not, and so, instead of that, he thought harder than ever before to save himself. Never before had he cared more to get away from death, normally finding it a comfort for a tranquil end, but the idea of dying at the hands of water was enough to crush him to minuscule pieces. He opened his eyes once more, calmer. A green glint caught his eye, and he knew it to be a beer bottle, thrown in by some drunkard on a rave or who knows what, he did not care at the time, or ever again. He prayed it was shattered, and that one bit of luck was given to him, that one saving grace. Wriggling over in the current, he managed to spin and grab it after three tries, and he sawed at the ropes binding his wrists, the sharp fracture cutting him in a few places accidentally, definitely getting glass into his fingers. He could feel their nibbling bites driving into his skin, puckering around the shards. Johan finally managed to break free of those ropes, and set to work on his feet, his lungs burning. He needed air, desperately! He hacked out of the ropes, and shot up, and found the surface much farther than he rather believe, and he would have torn off his cloak if he did not have faith in himself. He kicked his way up, higher, and elevating himself in the water, and he stared to the wavering moon as darkness began to cloud his vision, taking it over, water seeping into his fragile lungs. Joey’s hand felt cold, and he burst out of the water, his mask destroyed by the liquid and dripping down his face, his hair clinging to his skull, tangled to no end, but never had he been so alive, every nerve buzzing. He slowly made his way out of the water, coughing, coughing, and then, breathing. In, and out, each breath so painful, so wondrous. He collapsed on the rocks, and… breathed.

 

He lay on the rocky shore, air seeping out and in, his chest pressed to the cold ground, his wet cloak pressing down on him with a sensation of warmth. When the sun rose, his groggy thoughts began to clear, and with the dawn, it dawned on him that he would be late to work. Johan pushed himself off the stoney earth’s floor, and carefully began walking to the studio. On the way, he threw away the ruined mask and instead pulled his drying hood over his head. 

 

As he expected, he was late, and everyone stared at him as he trudged into his office. Dot knocked on his door to inform him of his meetings, stared at him, and giggled at his dazed and absentminded appearance. 

 

“Should I cancel these meetings, then, sir?” she asked with a smile. Johan nodded, resting his head on his desk. “Alright, Mr. Drew. Have a good da- oh, hello Dr. Stein!”

 

The young frenchwoman scurried away as Henry entered the office, closing the door behind himself, and walked over to Joey. 

 

“Where were you?” he inquired, befuddlement and some demand in his tone, his hand going to Joey’s arm to give it a grounding squeeze. His brows shot up. “And why are you… uh, moist? Did you shower in your clothes again, Joey?”

 

“No, I had an impromptu swimming lesson,” Joey replied, his hand going to push Henry’s away, but instead they intertwined. Henry’s thumb absentmindedly ran over the back of Joey’s hand as he looked into his eyes. Joey shifted and swallowed roughly. “....”

 

“You smell like the river,” Henry observed with concern, eyebrow raising. “The river is dangerous, Joey, everyone knows that. What… you’re lying, please, what happened? Why are you all wet? Were you not paying attention to where you were going?”

 

“I was, I was,” he insisted, crossing his heart with his spare hand. He took off his pin to check if the photographs within were damaged by the water, and found to his relief, they were not. He pinned it back, and gave the worried Henry a small smile. “I’m fine.”

 

“Joey.”

 

“I said I’m fine.”

 

“I know what you said, and you’re not! Who tried to kill you this time!? Your hands, there’s cuts all over them, Joey, what happened!?”

 

Johan froze, and his jaw locked.

 

“Joey,” Henry breathed in sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to come home with me, and then, you’re getting out of New York for a bit. You mentioned that your cousin is in California? Go visit her. Please, just… I’ll send one of the Franks to grab tickets for you, go pack your stuff. Just do this for me, okay?”

 

“Don’t send me away!” Joey pleaded, gripping his desk. “W-what about the toons, th-the workers? I can’t just abandon th-them, they’re m-my, our, studio f-family! Don’t do this, to me, Henry… please, don’t.”

 

“I have to,” Henry insisted, his blue eyes screwed shut with internal pain. “I’m… I’m scared Johan. I worry for you. So much… I can’t stand the thought of losing you now, not after everything we’ve been through. I’ll take care of the toons, I’ll sign the checks, but Joey, if you’re dead, everything is going to fall apart. Do you understand? Do this _for_ us.”

 

Joey looked around his office with torn eyes. He wanted to stay, so badly… but Henry was right. They had come so far, and it took so much work. He sighed and sank into his chair.

 

“Okay,” he whispered, his head lowering. “I’ll go visit Ramona. Fine. Fine! You win.”

 

“Joey, don’t talk like that,” Henry scolded with a groan. “You’re making it sound like I’m punishing you, but I’m not, I really am not. I promise you, I just want you to be safe. Throw them off your tail, clear the air. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

 

“I know,” Johan replied, getting up, grabbing his cane, hobbling towards the elevator. “It doesn’t make it hurt any less, you know. It hurts more.”

 

“Joey, please, let’s just have a nice dinner after work,” Henry asked, hugging him on the elevator, swaying a little. “It’ll be good. Us an’ Linda, as a family for once, you’re always too busy or I’m at work, can’t we just have this one thing together?”

 

“I think it would be… nice…” Joey slowly agreed with Henry, his knees lowering and his head burying in Henry’s hair, he inhaling the man’s smell of strawberries. “It would be v-very nice.”

 

“Mm, that’s the spirit,” Henry encouraged, hugging him a little tighter. “We could have something vegetarian if that suits you.”

 

“Very much,” Joey admitted with a smile, getting off the stopped lift, his thin hand locked in Henry’s broad one. “What are you thinking of?”

 

“How much I adore you,” Henry answered without missing a beat. Joey hushed him, blushing, his steps speeding up. Henry grinned, and went on, “How much I’d like to take you to my house for a nice dinner, making sure you eat for once, relaxing on the couch with my arm around you, tight and warm, close and together. But dinner wise, I’m thinking my father’s walnut and endive salad, cause I wanna pull you close _endive_ right in, and then if you grab some eggs from your chickens, darling, vegetarian haggis, my mom’s recipe.”

 

“You’re disgusting!” Johan laughed, but thought it a wonderful idea anyways. “But… that _does_ sound interesting, honestly… you’re not going to cook it in a sheep’s stomach, are you?”

 

“No, no I won’t,” Henry chuckled, and patted Johan’s stomach. “I should though, you need to put on some weight.”

 

“Ew! No, thanks, Henry. No way.”

 

Johan and Henry packed in silence, though Henry insisted on being the one to pack Joey’s undergarments, making a point of packing an extra pair, grinning and raising an eyebrow as he did so, finding himself tackled under Johan’s thin and bright red frame, the lanky chicano flustered and embarrassed, and they laughed, realizing how absurd they looked. Johan carefully packaged some eggs, grabbing a loaf of honey cake with it. Henry watched him with somber eyes, which Joey caught. Joey smiled at him sadly, walking over and hugging him over the shoulders.

 

“It’ll be okay, Jo,” Henry assured him.

 

“I know,” Joey replied, hugging him tightly. “I know.”

 

“Let’s get back to work,” Henry told him, and so they did.

 

At the end of the day, they met up in the parking lot, and Henry hopped onto the back of Johan’s motorbike, and off they went, and then they were at Henry’s house. They began cooking together, and Diane dropped Linda off an hour later. She eagerly helped Henry with preparing the haggis as Johan made faces behind Henry’s back, Linda howling in laughter at each of them. Joey adored the girl, she filled his heart with so much joy.

 

They finished cooking, and they ate the salad together as the other food cooled, Henry and Joey swapping stories and joking, Linda adding in her own anecdotes every so often. They were safe and happy, and together. Johan even praised Henry’s cooking skills, and he pinned it on his excellent parents. They toasted strawberry champagne to Henry’s parent’s good health, and Johan's parent’s poor health, laughing their heads off as they did so. Even Linda joined in, though she was not quite sure as to the purpose of it. Henry suddenly realized that Joey technically was not of age to drink, and Johan immediately spat back that alcohol was entirely illegal anyways. Henry had nothing to say in return, and Johan sipped his drink with a smug fangy grin. 

 

They sat on the couch after eating, Linda sandwiched between them, Johan reading to her a story as Henry dozed off, his arm over Linda’s shoulders and hand on Joey’s shoulder. Eventually Joey put the gal to sleep, carried her to her room, and then returned to Henry, curling around him on the couch. Henry’s hand ran through his hair. 

 

“Your hair’s white again,” Henry commented quietly. Johan hummed in acknowledgement. “What happened? Why did you go white so soon?”

 

“I don’t know,” Joey replied, his eyes closed. “I think that my, uh, powers did it to me. That using them to reset left a permanent mark on me.”

 

“I think it’s pretty,” Henry softly remarked. Joey went still. “I always did. It’s such a… fascinating thing, your hair. Gorgeous.”

 

“Yours is also really w-wonderful,” Johan mumbled, blushing. “It always smells like strawberries. I, uh, like it a lot. It’s soft and I love the curls.”

 

“Your ears are cute,” Henry cooed, scratching behind one of them. Joey gasped, but leaned into the touch anyways, vibrating slightly. “And that’s cute, too. What is it, like, uh, purring? It’s really nice and adorable. So so cute.”

 

“I’m not adorable!” Joey whined, his blush going deeper into his skin, ears tilting back. Henry grinned, raising an eyebrow, scratching under Joey’s chin, messing with his short (but growing) beard, making Johan sigh and squeak with the ticklish and delightful feeling. “How d-do y-you know me s-so well?”

 

“Cause I love you,” Henry responded quietly. Joey looked at him with wide red eyes. Henry looked back. “I really do, a lot.”

 

“I love you, too, Henry,” Joey softly said, smiling. “You’re incredible. And wonderful. I trust you for everything, with everything. I adore you.”

 

Whatever happened on that couch, Joey did not know for certain, but he knew he felt weightless, and so happy, silently together in domestic tranquility, a sun and an icarus. But this time, his wings remained unsinged, and their binding was not physically enforced, foreheads pressed together and nothing more, but the spiritual sensation of wholeness encompassed them both to the ends of the entirety of the universes, though their own was a construct of their own making, and they built another one within it, just them two, alone together.

 

“Johan Icarus,” Henry murmured, tasting the name on his tongue, savoring it. “When you’re done visiting your family, come back here, as they’d never think to look here.”

 

“I’m sure Disney and Fleischer would think to look here, Henry, it’s rather obviou-”

 

“I meant your family,” Henry continued with a smirk. Joey’s mouth remained open in shock, and Henry’s hand closed it for him, pushing his chin up. “They’d never find us. Not in a million years, not a million resets.”

 

Joey teared up, and Henry smiled at him softly. 

 

“I know we’ll make it. No matter how hard it gets, we’re going to get through.”

 

Henry rocked Johan as he wept into his chest, comforting himself as well as the younger man, and they took solace in each other. Eventually they parted, Johan going to the guest bedroom and Henry to his own room, and called goodnights to each other.

 

Johan drifted to sleep, and he suddenly registered a small presence in his room. He looked up to see Linda standing in the doorway.

 

“Uncle Joey? Can I stay in your bed tonight?” she asked him in a loud whisper, tugging on his blanket. He lifted it up and let her crawl inside, then pulled her close and tucked the blanket around her. “Thank you.”

 

It was all quiet once more.

 

“I wish I could call you papa Joey,” she mumbled. Johan froze up again. “Cause my Daddy loves… loves you… and I love you, too. I wish he would marry you already.”

 

“I love you both t-too,” Joey whispered to her, hugging her tiny body. “You’re my little Linda. But… I guess Hen and I aren’t ready for that yet. Heck, we just had our first date!”

 

“Don’t you have a date in the park every tuesday?” Linda inquired with some wonder. “That’s what Daddy calls them.”

 

“I, uh, didn’t know that he called them that,” Joey bemusedly replied with a smile in his voice. “It’s sweet, but… hm. I’d call them, uh, informal meetings.”

 

“They’re dates,” Linda pouted. Joey chuckled, “Okay, okay.”

 

Joey’s door opened again. Henry slipped in.

 

“Can I join you?” he questioned them with a smile, and both Linda and Joey scooted to make room for him. “Linda, scooch away for a sec, I need to kiss Joey.”

 

“No you don’t!” Joey squeaked, turning bright red, shielded by the darkness and his deep inky skin. “You most certainly do not!”

 

Linda giggled as they bickered, and wiggled into the blanket, lulled to sleep by her parent’s soft and loving voices.

 

When Linda woke up, Joey and Henry were eating a rushed breakfast, preparing to leave for the train station, and Diane picked Linda up to take her to school. 

 

At the train station, Joey and Henry kept a gentleman’s distance, though Henry assisted him with his suitcase, making sure his compartment was comfortable enough, double checking his tickets with him, anxious to leave him. Joey shooed him away, and soon, the train took off. Henry waved him off from the platform, and blew him a kiss he made sure to catch.

 

Joey’s visit to his cousins was uneventful, though he was appalled at the conditions they were in, and made sure to fix them to the best of his ability. He was not sorry to leave them after a week and a half, and eagerly returned home, to Henry.

 

Though Henry was not smiling when he picked him up from the train station. He handed him a mask, and told him to put it on.

 

“What? Why?” Joey asked, perplexed. There was a police badge flashed in his face not a minute later. “What the hell is g-going on?”

 

His questions went unanswered as his hands were placed behind his back, and he was glad he put on his gloves earlier. He flinched as he heard the click of the cuffs behind him, and he felt his breathing pick up speed.

 

“Calm down, Joey, it will be okay,” Henry assured him, more sounding like he was trying to assure himself. “There’s no proof.”

 

“For what?!” he demanded as he was led away. “Can someone _please_ tell me what’s happening?!”

 

“You’re under arrest for the murder of Walter Elias Disney,” he was informed. Behind the mask, his jaw dropped. Weakly, he asked, “Excuse me, what?”


	3. grin (and bear it)

Henry came to visit Johan in jail. The chicano was a mess, pacing his cell, papers scattered about him. His mask was askew, and his gloves were ink stained. Henry shook his head slowly. He wished Joey would at least try to calm down, instead of driving himself insane  _ and _ still doing all of his work for the company, making storyboards as he stayed up, night after night. He looked exhausted, even though his face was invisible. Henry reached through the bars and took Johan’s hand. Johan pulled it under his mask, pressing it to his face. Henry could feel the clamminess of Joey’s skin, and he sat beside him, across the bars. Joey sat at his feet, and cried silently.

 

“You were right, there’s no proof, neither to defend me nor to convict me,” Joey bemoaned in a nearly silent voice. “What am I to do?”

 

“I don’t know,” Henry admitted. “I have no idea. I don’t know….”

 

“This isn't my first time in jail, you know,” Johan sighed. Henry fell silent. “The first was… a few years ago… about five.”

 

“Was it something to do with Aramis?” Henry asked quietly, his other hand coming to Joey’s face, trying to comfort him. Joey nodded. “I’m sorry, Joey.”

 

“It’s not what you think it was a-about.” Joey quietly added. “It was… before she was born.”

 

“I wanted to ask about… Aramis,” Henry brought up slowly after a bit of silence. “Were they a girl or boy…? Last time you said you had a son, and now he’s a she?”

 

“As I was reconstructing the w-worlds, I discovered her diary,” Joey looked at his hands, his head lowering. “She kept an audio diary I gave her. I… I listened to it. She said that she wanted to tell me right before her quinceanera. That sh-she was a she. God… God I wish I could be there. I wish I still did not know, I wish that she would still be here today….”

 

“I’m so sorry, Joey,” Henry tried to hug him, but the bars barred him from doing so, so he just ran his hand through his hair instead. “It’s okay, it’s okay… I’m sure she was wonderful….”

 

“She was an angel,” Joey whispered, his hands holding onto Henry’s knees. “I loved her with all my heart. So much.”

 

“How did she look?”

 

Johan pulled off his pin, and handed it to Henry.

 

Henry rose an eyebrow.

 

“Go on, open it.” Joey told him.

 

“I was under the impression it did not open,” Henry commented, and found a small spring on the top of the pin. It creaked open, hinged imperceptibly on the bottom. Within, a young child’s face smiled at Henry in black and white, the resemblance to Johan almost uncanny. Henry touched a finger to the photograph. “... she looks just like you.”

 

“That’s what everyone said,” Johan murmured. “She was lighter than me, and her eyes were green. She was very special.”

 

They sat in silence.

 

“When’s your trial?” Henry asked, trying to break the glass around them. Johan shrugged, Henry’s question bouncing off. He frowned. “You don’t know?”

 

“It’s soon,” Joey shrugged. His fingers traced small patterns on Henry’s knees, his head pressed to the bars of his cell.

 

“Do you think you’re prepared?” Henry inquired, worried. “Didn’t you ask for a lawyer?”

 

“No lawyer is going to protect me more than I can,” Joey quietly assured him. “And I might even be over prepared. I have video evidence, witness accounts, alibis, the works. I’ll be fine. Probably. Hopefully. Except that Disney has money. Well, I’m doomed. Might as well call it a day and head to sleep with a smile, eh Hen?”

 

“That does not sound good, Joey!” Henry snapped, but he held his hands tight. “And what if you get convicted? They’d kill you!”

 

“....”

 

“Joey, please,” Henry grabbed him by his cheeks, squishing them a little as he made him face him. “Promise me we’re gonna get through this, together. Promise me.”

 

“I promise,” Joey promised him, giving his small, awkward, lopsided smile. The smile he gave when he was uncertain of himself, but honest. “I’ll try my best. They can’t convict me on no evidence… and, as you know, Disney’s body was not found. It is my suspicion that his death was faked to frame me. Of course, I’ll need to know the o-other witness statements to be certain a-as to how to proceed with my own case, but I c-covered all possible roots already.”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

“Yes, I am,” Joey smiled at him, blindingly. His hand pressed onto Henry’s on his cheek, and he held it in place to press a small kiss to his wrist, taking solace in the Doctor’s broad palm. “Thank you for st-standing by me, Henry. It means the world to me.”

 

“Of course,” Henry replied, almost surprised. “Of course I would stand by you. We’ve been through one run, and we can make it through this life.”

 

“Oh, Henry,” Joey sighed, his heart clenching, his brow furrowing in sadness. “It wasn’t just one run. I meant to tell you, but it constantly slipped my mind. Oh, Henry, Henry, it wasn’t only once.”

 

“It… It wasn’t?” Henry asked, shocked, jaw dropping. “So… how many times did it happen?”

 

“I think five….” he answered shamefacedly. “I only remember one, and the others are fuzzy memories of a bygone era. I don’t think I could scrounge up o-or recover those memories if I tried with all my might. Th-they’re far too damaged.”

 

“So how… how many years has it been?”

 

“I have no idea.”

 

“None at all?”

 

“None at a-all.”

 

“That’s fine,” Henry nodded. His hands ran over Johan’s head, the white and blue strands springing up after every stroke. “I rather like how it’s going so far… aside from this whole framing issue. But it’s going to be okay. Right?”

 

“Absolutely.” Joey affirmed.

 

He did not say another word, aside from just a simple goodbye when Henry left,

 

Until the trial.

 

Joey trembled in his seat. The defendant seat. Of a court case. Good god, why was this happening to him? He could not hear those around him, only the pounding pulses in his ears behind his mask. He feared the moment that he would have to take off the mask, and he shook. He could hardly hear the words he said as he argued his own case, fighting for his life, and only could feel his heart booming in his chest, threatening to burst from his ribs. Oh god, it ached!

 

And yet, he had not one moment to attempt to quell the pounding thrum. 

 

He saw Henry lean to an asian appearing lawyer, Joey recognizing him as Henry’s cousin, whispering a question, clearly displeased and worried by the headshake of an answer he received, biting his knuckles lightly and squirming.

 

Joey made objections, and fought, and struggled, and then, he was called.

 

“Johan Ramirez Drew to the witness stand.”

 

Johan shook as he walked up to the stand, gripping the banister. He stared at his hands.

 

“State your name for the record.”

 

“M-my name is Johan Ramirez D-Drew,” Johan stumbled over his words.

 

“Age?”

 

“I j-just turned s-sixteen two weeks ago.”

 

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

 

“And when did the incident occur?”

 

“About a month ago.”

 

Some arguing broke out, and the judge’s gavel banged, and Johan’s head snapped up.

 

“Joey Drew Ramirez to the witness stand!”

 

Johan gripped his cane, and there was complete silence in the room as he slowly walked to the stand, and sat with his back as straight as he could sit, gazing around the crowd.

 

So many people… who even cared this much? And why? Why did anyone care this much?

 

“State your name for the record, Mr. Drew.”

 

“My name is Johan, ‘Joey’, Drew Ramirez.” He spoke slowly and clearly. “I am nineteen years old. The incident occurred about two months ago.”

 

“Could you describe the incident?”

 

“W-well, um,” the sixteen year old shifted uncomfortably. “I was in m-my room d-doing my homework, and… I… uh… I normally c-cook, and was p-planning on doing so, b-but my step father called me d-down. He had j-just gotten a new shotgun and w-was using it t-to go h-hunting, and h-he normally ate what h-he caught himself. He t-told me that he wanted me to try what he caught this time, an’ I-I did, and he gave me stuff to d-drink with it, too. I w-wanted to say no, but I was s-so scared to, c-cause I didn’t… I didn’t….”

 

Johan’s breathing went out of his control. 

 

The judge peered down at him.

 

“Take your time, Mr. Ramirez.”

 

Johan nodded, swallowed, inhaled, and continued quietly, “I didn’t want him to beat me again. S-so I ate it.”

 

Silence.

 

“And what happened after you ate the food?”

 

“I felt… um, d-dizzy. Like after a r-roller coaster,” Johan’s throat felt raw. “I couldn’t s-see right. I could feel myself being m-moved some, somewhere, but not t-to my room. It was o-one of the guest r-rooms. There were a few people in it already. I w-was asked a questions that m-my step father told me the an-answers to, but I was t-too dizzy to h-hear right… I don’t remember them.”

 

“None?”

 

“None.”

 

“Please continue your testimony.”

 

“I remember being pushed-d onto the bed,” Johan swallowed, inhaling, then exhaling. “And feeling r-really nice. W-warm. Good. I didn’t see w-what was happening-g, s-since my eyes were c-closed ‘cause I felt so nice, sir.”

 

“And then?”

 

“I s-suddnely felt… rapture.” Johan closed his eyes to think straight, to remember better, and he thought he may vomit there and then. “It all went dark. When I w-woke up, I was dis-disoriented, still in the guest room, and I realized th-that I was c-cold because I, um….”

 

“Continue, please.”

 

“I didn’t have any clothes.” Johan rushed out as quickly as he could. A snicker ran through the audience, and he felt his cheeks burn with shame. He ducked his head as the judge banged their gavel, chastising those witnessing the public and ‘fair’ trial. The judge turned to him, and indicated that Johan go on with his testimony. “I knew s-something was very, uh, very off. W-with how I felt. I felt. Violated… used. It was e-extremely unpleasant….”

 

“I can imagine,” the judge monotonously replied, leaning back. The prosecutor then asked him, “Were you aware of what happened in full, or was it just the feelings?”

 

“J-Just the feeling of something-g horribly wrong…” Johan forced himself not to whimper. “W-when I was fully waking up-p, I heard yelling, my step brother and f-father arguing. It… was not a n-normal thing, but I w-was desperate to make myself s-scarce, so I found m-my scattered things and was a-about to run to my room to l-lock myself away f-from it, when my st-step brother burst in and… well, he h-hugged me, a-asked if I was ok, th-then realized that I was, um, holding my clothes rather th-than, uh, wearing them.”

 

“Mr. Ricardo Joseph Drew, is that true?”

 

“Yes.” Rico affirmed from the witness bench, hands clenching and unclenching. “I was furious. At the man who called himself my father, how could he do such a thing to my brother?! Pay to have him raped!?”

 

“Please, restrain yourself, Mr. Ricardo,” the judge drawled, but not without sympathy. “This is a courthouse, and please, use proper language. Mr. Ramirez, could you describe the incident?”

 

“I was on the train back from California,” Joey sighed, repeating the same thing he had said over and over, for what felt like the millionth time. “I was visiting my maternal cousin, Ramona, and her daughter. They recently had lost much - Ramona’s husband was k-killed, their ranch was burned, and they moved to America in hopes of work. I had gone under the pretense of a business deal with Mr. Disney, one that I had claimed that I would go to, and had not.”

 

“Why did you not go?”

 

Johan shrugged. 

 

“Woulda said no, anyways. Disney only wanted to buy my characters, and I wouldn’t dream of selling them for the world. Have you ever created something, Your Honor? Anything, a story, a pie, a drawing? You’d wanna share it, no? But you’d take pride in it - ‘yes sir, I made that, sir’. Maybe I’ve g-got too much pride. Maybe. But I hope not. Mr. Disney had already tried stealing my characters, and I’ve already sued him over it twice. It can happen again, but I’d be damned before I’d just let him get away with it-t. That’s why I didn’t go to the meetin’. Even now, knowing that I’m being framed for his murder, I still would not have gone. I love my characters. Wouldn’t give them up for the world, let alone some worthless money.”

 

“I see,” the justice nodded. “Now, what did you do with your cousin in California?”

 

“Saw their living space, paid to have the entire faculty upgraded,” his nose wrinkled behind his mask. “I was disgusted by the horrid conditions. I worked for the facilities to become more equal, and spent time with her, just talking. I left with a heavy heart, feeling that no matter how much money I’d pour into the situation, that it would get no better, but after returning to New York, I had received a letter from her while I was in jail, thanking me for helping them. I felt better then.”

 

“You mentioned your last name is Ramirez,” the prosecutor came into the case. “I do believe we have the right to know your ethnicity.”

 

“Objection, Your Honor, relevance.” Joey rolled his eyes behind his mask. Amtuer hour. The judge nodded. “Objection accepted.”

 

“The witness claims that he saw a tall, pale man entering Mr. Disney’s home an hour before the murder had been reported.”

 

“Wait, pale as in…?” Johan paused, tilting his head. His leg bounced on his wheelchair. “Skin color or simply pale?”

 

“Skin tone,” the witness replied confidently.

 

“Was the person who used you male or female?” the prosecutor seemed to tower over the boy. Johan shook, and he stuttered, “F-female.”

 

“Do you know if she is pregnant?”

 

“W-what?”

 

“Is the woman that you were with pregnant?” the prosecutor demanded. Joey felt overwhelmed. “Well, is she?”

 

“I don’t kn-know!” Joey’s hands gripped his arms, a piece of driftwood in the ocean, being battered to pieces. “I’m not a d-doctor!”

 

“And what does the doctor say?” the judge inquired to said doctor. The man cleared his throat and stood up, looking at medical records. He paused, and asked the judge, “What if she is or is not? What will happen to the boy and the child?”

 

“The boy? Well, it’s not up to him,” the judge peered at Johan. “But the child must be kept. It is illegal not to. It would only be his choice to keep the child as his own, or give it up.”

 

“Well,” the doctor inhaled. “Ms. [REDACTED] [REDACTED], who has been admitted into the hospital against her will, under the force of law, has been determined as pregnant. Due to the case surrounding her, a nurse will be provided to go with her to all places.”

 

Johan felt the scream before he knew it was ringing from his throat, he felt the tears before his vision was blurred, he smelled hell before he knew what it was, he felt his hands digging into his skull before he tugged on his hair, he fell to his knees before he knew he could pray.

 

Johan’s breathing hitched. 

 

“Did you say skin tone?” he asked, excitedly. His studio looked about each other happily. “You did, didn’t you! Oh, thank the lord in the heavens above!”

 

He tore off his gloves in jubilation, and tore off his mask with a buoyant shake of his head, laughing, exultant, as he pulled away the turtleneck extension. 

 

“And that is where you’re wrong, Mr. Disney!” he shouted at the air, quite literally jumping for joy. Reporters gasped, pointing, scribbling out their stories, rewriting them, cameras flashing.

 

“That’s him, that’s our boy!” the studio cried out in elation. The newspaper facility he worked for in the past also exploded into cheers and gasps, grinning and calling for Joey to shake their hand, some collecting money from bets of who Johan was, and everyone knew the case was settled. Not quite, though. Joey scanned the crowd, and slipped to judge, whispering to him. He banged his gavel. “Order in the court! Order! Lock the doors of the room! Thank you!”

 

Joey spun on his heel to look at everyone. He was vibrating with anticipation. 

 

“Now, we all know that I, Johan ‘Joey’ Ramirez Drew, did not kill Mr. Disney. In fact, Mr. Walter Elias Disney is in this room, right now.”

 

The entire room was dead silent. 

 

“He was clever, he disguised himself,” Johan continued, eyes half lidded. “But not clever enough. He picked a position to excluded him from registering, posing as a reporter.”

 

All the reporters looked at each other, but one was stared at by everyone.

 

“He would have gotten away with this,” Johan watched him as well, a smile spreading, the other man standing, “Had he not picked the very newspaper I once, and still, via comic making, worked for.”

 

“You bastard!” Disney snarled, tearing off the false beard. “You bloody bastard!”

 

“Arrest that man,” the judge ordered after the shock wore off. “He tried his best to have an innocent man killed!”

 

“And I’ll get him yet!” the businessman barked, pointing at the justice. The lights went out, all at once, and Bertrum lunged for Disney, grappling with him for a moment before the other man slipped out of his suit, leaving it in the future doctor’s hands, and then vanished into the shadowy crowd. Henry and Bertrum bumped into one another, and they called for Joey. Commotion and hubbub was bursting out in the courtroom, people trampling over each other, gripping friends close, and trying to grab at the possible enemies among them. The judge’s gavel banged, over and over, and finally, the light came on. Anarchy still reigned. “Calm down!”

  
“Wait!” Henry cried out, grabbing the gavel, and banging it as hard as he could, silence falling out over the crowd. “Where’s Joey?!”

 

In the hallway, Johan struggled to fight against the two men pulling him back. He tried to hit them off, tried to run, he tried to scream, but a gag was stuffed into his mouth, and the butt of a revolver smacked against the back of his head,

 

once, dazing him,

  
  


twice, stunning him,

  
  
  


thrice, and it all went black.

 

Joey fought against the haze in his mind, hearing voices, voices he could not process.

 

However, we are not Johan, and therefore, these voices can be understood.

 

“Good thing the hospital isn't too far,” Fleischer huffed, dragging Joey backwards. The lanky man groaned in his confusion. Disney nodded with a scowl; “It’s also a good thing we planned this, just in case.”

 

Fleischer flagged a cab, even as the commotion within the courthouse grew exponentially.

 

“Please, he’s hurt, get us to the hospital straight away,” Disney spoke in a masked voice, pulling Joey and Fleischer into the car with him. Henry ran out of the courthouse, his lab coat flapping behind him, and he cursed as they zoomed away. Disney smirked, and muttered to Fleischer. “No problems from here on out - once  _ he  _ can’t do what they expect him to, this one will be at a loss, for good. We’re in the clear. By the way, after this, I don’t expect to work with you again.”

 

“Agreed,” Fleischer nodded. Joey tried to raise his head, unable to see anything but the blackness in his darkened eyes. “Our sleeping beauty is trying to wake, aw.”

 

“He doesn’t look anything like I expected,” Disney opined, putting a hand onto Joey’s face to turn and inspect it better. “I’m surprised that one of… his type was able to get up so high. No wonder he wore a mask. And what is he, Mexican?”

 

“I’m pretty sure that was stated in court,” Fleischer interjected. Disney hummed, and neither spoke, until Fleischer recontinued in a low tone. “Do you think that Stein fellow is after us?”

 

“Undoubtedly,” Disney leaned back with a grin. “But it’s not like he’s gonna catch us or figure out where we’re going.”

 

Henry scanned the area, cursing, wishing the police would do a better job of looking for the cab, and remembered the jacket that Bertrum had been torn off of Disney. There  _ must _ be a clue in it! There has to be! There absolutely has to be… there must be!

 

He ran as fast as he could, feeling the cold breath of a demon on his neck, dodging other dashing wandering souls, ducking and jumping around them, and snatched the forgotten coat from off the ground. He searched the pockets hastily, and found, crumpled in the breast pocket, a small brochure. It was from the very hospital he worked at, and his eyes narrowed as he glanced over it. His eyes widened, and the paper drifted to the ground, the man already running as fast as he could to get a cab or 

 

“Bertrum!” Henry gasped, bumping into the panicking greek. “I know where he is, I need to get to the hospital!”

 

“The hospital?” Bertrum’s eyebrows shot up, Lacie stepping back in surprise as well, and she asked, “Why would they take him there?!”

 

“Walter Jackson Freeman,” Henry wheezed in explanation. The name had no meaning to Lacie, but to Bertrum, he understood immediately. He grabbed Henry by his arm and ran him to his car, and he called to the befuddled mechanic, “I’ll see you at home, Lacie!”

 

Bertrum speed through the streets, and even so, Henry had a sneaking suspicion that they got to the hospital sooner than they should have, not that he was ungrateful for it. Time was of the utmost importance, and the clock seemed to tick faster and faster. Both of them ran out of the car, and dashed into the hospital.

 

“Where is he?” Bertrum panted as Henry dashed before him. “Slow down, for Zeus’ sake! Actually, don’t slow down! Speed up, I’ll catch up to you! Go!”

 

And so Henry did, running as fast as he could, praying he would not be too 

 

“We’re late,” Disney hissed to Fleischer. Joey was in a wheelchair, fisherman’s thread digging into his wrists to restrain him, his head sunk against his chest, pounding with the blows he had received. A small groan of exhaustion escaped him. “But no matter. Mr. Drew here has a specially made appointment.”

 

“What does this thing do again? A leucotomy?” Fleischer asked, briskly walking alongside his fiendish partner. “What good will that do for us, exactly?”

 

“If the head doesn’t function fully, the body will collapse,” Disney explained. “And that applies to a business as well. Without Drew able to function, well, the whole studio will fall apart. And then free sailing from here on out.”

 

“L-Leucotomy…?” Johan mumbled, blinking in the bright hospital light. “A… a l-lobotomy?”

 

“Someone’s finally putting the pieces together, hm?” Disney chuckled, grinning at the still dazed chicano. Joey squinted in the harsh lighting. “Oh, don’t worry about it. When it’s over, you won’t be able to have an opinion on it, anyways.”

 

“What!?” Johan shrieked, the situation becoming clear to him. “No! No! Help! Help! Hel-MMPH!”

 

Joey hyperventilated against Fleischer’s hand pressing to his mouth. He tried to scream around it, but found the gag shoved into his mouth and tied in place, again. Tears started to trickle from his eyes.

 

“Shh, shh, it’ll all be over soon…” they entered a presentation hall. The glint of the two ice pick rods burned into Joey’s eyes, as did all the electrical equipment. Despair flooded his system, drowning every hope away. “It’ll all be over soon….”

 

Henry’s polished shoes left skid marks as he ran down, down, down, jumping over the stair rail to skip some steps and shave some seconds, just a few. He ran as fast as he could, faster than when he ran from the ink, feeling the cold air of the demon on the nape of his neck, and yet, he never ran so fast, never ran so fast in his life, in any of his lives, desperate to save the one person that understood him, that knew him inside and out, whose smile he never wanted to lose, who would go through 

 

“A lobotomy is a very delicate procedure,” Mr. Freeman spoke in a showman’s voice to the amassed crowd. “It calms the mind. It relaxes the body. It frees those that go through it into a sense of tranquility, assuring them that all is right in the world - and so it is.”

 

Johan’s head was held back, yet there was no need: he was paralyzed by the sight of the “ice picks” that would be used to bore into a skull, his skull. The way the so called doctor waved them around without any care as to the result, flashing in the far too bright light. He was chained once more, tightly bound to the board. Johan scanned the crowd with his eyes, praying to see someone that might help him, but found that they were all mesmerized by Freeman’s performance. Joey felt his hair being brushed back, and it felt soothing, and he tried to relax into it. The gag would come out, it had to, it must, and he would be able to cry for help. But what if it was deflected as insanity? What if no one cared? Tears trickled from the corners of his eyes. 

 

“We shall now anesthetize the patient with electrotherapy,” Freeman continued, peering over Joey. “As you can see, this young man has been brought on account of his sexual preference - the lobotomy procedure is very powerful, and many have used it to correct this.”

 

Johan wanted to slap him. How dare he? He was slim, he was tall, he was gay, and he was proud of it!

 

“Please, shock the patient,” the psychologist instructed his assistant, who nodded, and pressed the two electrodes to the sides of Joey’s head, and god! The pain! It laced through his body, and he screamed against the gag stuffed in his mouth. His head, had it not been held back ever so gently, would have thrashed from side to side to avoid the pain. His whole body convulsed. His hair was brushed back again, and it tingled and stung like hundreds of swarming mosquitoes. “And now, my assistant will cut the patient’s hair until-”

 

“Stop!”

 

The doors slammed into the walls, breaking indents into them, bits of ceiling falling. Henry’s shoes clacked against the floors as he ran towards the stage. 

 

“There’s been a confounding mistake!” he shouted, and Freeman made his assistant put down the razor he held. He jumped down the stage to greet Henry. “Well, I’ll say! Whatever is the matter, doctor?”

 

“That man is not a patient, he’s Joey Drew!” Henry panted, hands on his knees, looking up at the other doctor. His eyes widened. “He’s been kidnapped from the courthouse by….”

 

Henry whipped around and pointed at the two men attempting to escape from the theater room.

 

“Disney and Fleischer!”

 

The two businessmen looked at each other and then attempted to bolt, but immediately bumped into Bertrum, who grabbed them both by their ears. 

 

Henry ran to Joey as the police came in to sort everything out, Freeman at his heels. Henry held Johan’s unconscious head in his hands, tears burning in his eyes.

 

“Did you…?” he asked Freeman when the man caught up. Freeman put a hand on Henry’s shoulder and shook his head. “W-why is he….?”

 

“Seems like the shock was too much for him,” Freeman scratched his head. “That’s odd, normally those that go through a transorbital lobotomy are able to respond even as the treatment is occuring.”

 

“Good thing we’re already in a hospital,” Henry muttered, taking the abandoned razor and cutting at the wire tying Joey down to the wheelchair. He and Freeman exchanged a few words, and he ended up chatting with the man as he wheeled Joey to a room he knew was always available, writing in his vitals and reason for being in the hospital (Shock, both emotional and physical). Henry and Freeman shared a cup of tea as they spoke together. Then, Freeman shook his watch out of his sleeve, bid Henry a goodbye, and left. Henry’s hands ran through Joey’s hair, and he was so grateful that it was still there for him to do so. Joey’s eyes fluttered open at the warm touch. Henry’s smile felt like it would tear his cheeks, and small tears filmed over his eyes. “Hello, honeybee.”

 

“Hen… ry?” Joey croaked, his throat raw. He managed to see Henry clearly after blinking a few times, and then smiled back at him. “H-hello, doctor.”

 

“How are you feeling?” Henry asked, squeezing his hand. “Need anything?”

 

“I feel… fine…” Johan admitted, though he seemed worried. “I need to know if th-they… you know… went through with i-it?”

 

“No, I got there just in time,” Henry told him. “You know, I heard that he was going to lobotomize you under the word that you’re gay.”

 

“Oh, I am!” Joey proudly stated, grinning. “Very much so!”

 

“Well, I am as well,” Henry chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Perhaps more than you!”

 

“Excuse me my good sir!” he cried out. “You were the one married to a young Eleanor, and then to a Diane, weren’t you?”

 

“That may be so,” Henry hummed, tapping his chin, “But now….”

 

His hand came to rest on Johan’s. His blue eyes looked right into red ones, glistening and gleaming with love and genteelity. 

 

“But now what?” the dark man smiled dazzlingly, stealing Henry’s breath away with his sheer beauty. A princeling, that is what Joey was. One of the forgotten fair folk. His eyelashes batted in a playful manner. “Doesn’t change the fact you are certainly less gay than I!”

 

“Doesn’t it, now?” Henry grinned, climbing onto the white hospital bed, nuzzling against the side of Johan’s chin, making the lanky man laugh and wriggle under his weight. Henry pressed little kisses to the other’s collarbone, making him burst out into a fit of giggles. Henry hugged him tightly, slipping under the blanket to garner the warmth from his beloved. He smiled at Joey, who smiled back sadly, hand coming to rest on Henry’s cheek, wiping away Henry’s stray tears as he said to him in his sonorous and musical voice, “Don’t cry, mi amor! It’s all ok, it’s fine.”

 

“I know,” Henry smiled, pulling Joey all the closer to himself, their opposite bodies like puzzle pieces, clicking together perfectly, “and that’s why I’m crying.”

 

Joey woke up to Henry’s soft snoring. It left him with an incredulous smile on his face, his heart aflutter. The distinct smell of the man’s aftershave and scent of fresh daisies nearly sent Johan back into a crush like swoon. The glow of his soft, curly, strawberry pink and blonde hair, the sun’s rays brilliantly illuminating each strand in high definition, and that wonderfully blossoming glow reflecting onto Joey beautifully. The warm and comforting presence of his stout and sturdy body, pressing down onto the bed and making Joey gravitate towards him. All of Joey’s senses were occupied, aside from taste, though he could sense his mouth watering at the thought of spending each morning like that. He and Henry together, little Linda in her own room, dozing away peacefully, pure sugary goodness and warmth for their entire family, get togethers with the Flynns, Franks, and the rest of the studio members, tea with Bertrum and coffee with Sammy, complaining to Lacie and joking with Buddy, that was all he wanted. His family to be with him, his family to be safe. Johan, still smiling, pressed a kiss to the top of Henry’s head, staring up at the white ceiling, dissociating to another existence slowly.

 

A world without Henry. Without anyone. Alone. 

 

His arms tightened around Henry involuntarily, brows tilting in concern. Heavens, he was terrified of that world, of that past. He wished he could forget it, and yet, at the same time, he knew that if he would, it would happen, over and over. It already did. There was a gaping hole in his soul where the forgotten lives rested, never to rise again, always whispering in his mind the missing time, the lost choices, the dooms he rang and the lives he stole.

 

Joey was a murderer.

 

His breathing hitched, eyes welling over.

 

And it was not just in one forgotten or remembered past life, but all of them, even this one. He did not have a choice, this was before he understood what horrors he could wreak across the multitude of universes. That first death was burned into him.

 

His step uncle’s flashing grey eyes, the way he tried to cut out his heart, oh, he would never forget the glint of the butcher’s knife, the way it drove into his shoulder, tendons muscles and joints ripping, skin and veins tearing, blood slickening the hand of the man pinning him, his right hand grasping his wrist through pain, left snatching the weapon cleaved into his arm, and 

there

was

so

much

blood.

 

So much noise. 

 

White noise blazing and ringing in his ears.

 

His eyes alight with icy tears, he gasped and nearly sobbed, snapping back to his shaking body. 

 

Do not wake Henry.

 

He forced himself to stay silent, his free arm slapping over his mouth, clenching his jaw to keep quiet. 

 

Do not wake him.

 

“Joey?” Henry mumbled, pushing himself off the bed. His hand patted the side table for his glasses, which were on top of his head. Johan remained silent. “Johan, you ok?”

 

Johan did not reply, but shook his head in response. Henry, rubbing his eyes, turned to face him, looking at him intently. Blue teal eyes softened, his yellow hair glowing, eyebrows knitting in sadness. He took Joey’s face in his hands, and pressed their foreheads together.

 

“Love, it’s okay,” Henry assured him, his thumbs going back and forth on Joey’s cheeks, calming him tenderly. “Remember, we are in this together. Nothing can tear us apart. Don’t forget that. Never forget that.”

 

“I won’t,” Joey promised in a raspy breath. His throat felt raw. He coughed, and sobbed, and buried his face in Henry’s shoulder, shoulders shaking. “I hope I won’t, please don’t let me forget, please, Henry, I d-don’t wanna forget….”

 

“You won’t, you won’t.”

 

“Henry?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I love you.”

 

“I… you know.”

 

“Why c-can’t you ever say it?” Joey’s voice broke, a hint of exasperation, of hopelessness, of sadness, of hurt seeping into the cracks. Henry, staring at the blank wall, felt the reverberations of Joey’s words on his neck as the weeping man clung to him, and he felt a thin and icy sweat break out on his brow. “You say it, but only when you laugh, you say it, only when you don’t think, you say it, but you never mean it.”

 

Henry could not reply. He did not even know what to say. How could he? He did not know the reason. It was not the internalized fear, nor was it that he did not love him, he did, he truly did, but he never could say it. He did not know how. 

 

So, he just wrapped his arms around Joey tightly, and hugged him close, trying to say with his heart what his mouth refused to form and release.

 

Johan was let out of the hospital that day, leaning away from Henry. Henry felt a divide grow between them again. He wished in his mind to be able to say those three words, but he could not. Joey had once told him of another love who refused to say those same words, and he seemed so sad as he told him, but still so hopeful.

 

That burning hope. It melted everyone nearby, it endeared Joey to everyone. He was the sweetest and kindest soul Henry had ever met. Bertrum and Lacie loved him as his family, Grant and Sori took him in and cared about him, the entire music department adored him, he was Joey Drew, but more importantly he was their friend and family. A brother, a father, a nephew, a cousin, an uncle, he was all of it. 

 

To Henry, he was so much more, but he did not know what to say. 

 

He was his moonlight sonata, his sweet honey bee, his darling devil, and so very wonderful.

 

Finishing the animations of Joey’s story boards, sending them to the junior animators for fixing up anything he missed, he made his way upstairs to Joey’s apartment. For the past few days, Joey had been obsessing over blueprints for a vast amount of different inventions, mechanical legs, bionic eyes, and lately, that machine. The inventions took over Joey’s thoughts, and he needed someone to remind him to go to meetings (that he avoided by drinking copious amounts of coffee), or to go to sleep (normally Willy or Wally took that upon themselves), or to go outside so that he did not pass out from the lack of external stimulus (Henry was still trying to decode that).

 

He opened the door, expecting to see him surrounded by papers, and was gladdened to see that he was not, instead happily settled in his wheelchair by his coffee table, pondering before a chessboard with no opponent behind it. He was so absorbed in the game that did not notice Henry. Henry grinned, about to ask if Johan was playing himself, when Johan, on white, made a quick out of book move, and the black pieces moved on their own to counter.

 

Henry’s jaw dropped and he stared in a complete and total shock, silenced by the surprise of the magic, as Johan continued to play against no one, signing words every now and then, and eventually won, his pieces dancing a small jig before both white and black pieces reset.

 

Johan then took notice of Henry, and with a grin, gently picked up the game and put it in a glass case, patting the lid affectionately.

 

“Fascinating, isn't it?” he inquired to the doctor with a blinding grin. “A worthy player. A real sweetheart, too. When you sit before it, you can see him. He speaks sign very well. G-Grace helped me learn it, y-you know.”

 

“That’s really incredible,” Henry affirmed, eyes wide. “Where on earth did you pick something like that up from?”

 

“Found it in an old bookstore being used as a prop.”

 

“You bought it?”

 

“Nah, I traded some stuff for it. Old books that I had doubles of.”

 

“Why didn’t you just buy it?” Henry asked, confused, knowing that Joey loved his books and only gave away his doubles to those he loved. Johan did not say anything. “Did you… could you not afford it?”

 

“No, I could not,” Joey replied, his face darkening. Henry smiled softly, and lifted Joey’s face with his hands, his big palms pressing to Joey’s cheeks. “I wish I c-could’ve….” 

 

“I know,” Henry soothed him, pressing their foreheads together. Joey relaxed into the touch. “I know, and I wish I was there for you then. But now, we’re here. Together. Right?”

 

“Right,” Johan answered absently. Henry patted his cheeks. “What-t?”

 

“You’re zoning out, Johan,” Henry chuckled. Joey blushed, and Henry could feel it. Henry smiled. “You’re adorable, Jo.”

 

“No I’m n-not!” Joey stuttered, blushing, squirming. He could not escape Henry’s laugh, and he turned even redder. “Henry!”

 

“I love you.”

 

Joey froze, staring at him.

 

“I love you.” Henry repeated.

 

He watched Joey melt in love. 

 

Henry grinned, and he leaned close to the chicano. 

 

“I love you,” he said again, whispering the words that Johan had been dying to hear. Johan stood sharply, wobbling on his weak legs, and Henry caught him around the waist, right hand trailing up his back and pulling him down into a hug. Johan’s eyes were wide, his mouth ajar, his knees bent and wobbly. Henry’s lips moved against Joey’s ear. “I love you.”

 

“O-oh,” Joey gasped, breathing picking up. “Oh, oh… I….”

 

“You’re amazing?” Henry offered, smiling against Johan’s cheek. He could feel his ears heat up. “You’re kind? You’re handsome?”

 

“Ah, ah, um,” Joey eloquently replied. “R-Ray?”

 

“Yes, darling?” Henry beamed, loving the nickname from ages ago. When was the last time Joey had called him that? He did not quite remember, but he did not quite care. It was still familiar, still loving, still close. His fingers ran through Joey’s hair, the soft clement strands plush between the digits. “What is it?”

 

“I love you too,” Joey fumbled with his words, squeaked, and hid his face in the crook of Henry’s neck. “Y-you’re so mind blowing.”

 

“You are,” Henry smugly retorted. Joey let out a dreamy sigh, relaxing against Henry, sinking lower, his knees like melting ice cream. “I love you.

 

“Love you too,” Joey squeaked.

 

“Good,” Henry rumbled, smiling. “You better, Johan, or else.”

 

“I don’t think I need to be threatened, Henry!” Joey pouted. “I think that the environment threatens me anyways, so your words are a waste of air.”

 

“I’ll make you breathless to conserve air, then,” Henry’s voice reverberated, his grin nearly audible. Johan squirmed and wiggled in his arms. He spun him around and dipped him, Joey’s leg flying into the air. Henry grinned, leaning close. Joey’s breathing picked up, his eyes widening. “Oh, I love you….”

 

“I gotta go,” Johan gasped out, jumping out of Henry’s arms, running down to his office, leaving Henry standing in his apartment, dumbfounded.

 

Joey ran down to his office as fast as he could, slamming the door shut. He breathed, hard.

 

Good god, things moved so fast for him, almost too fast. 

 

He sank against the wall, and slowly made his way to his desk.

 

He pulled himself into his chair, and set to work, pulling close the blueprints, sorting through them to get to… that one.

 

Signed by Wally, but made by himself and Thomas.

 

It was safer that way.

 

Joey worked quietly. His keyboard clicked, nearly silent.

 

He did not know what to do, overwhelmed. What is he supposed to do, he never, ever would have believed that this would happen. 

 

He expected to love Henry from afar and that would be that, never to hear those words back from Henry, no, it was so… queer.

 

He chuckled to himself, and sketched a little more, bringing the miniature model close and examining it. What a complex machine, with so much more purpose than what others believed. The ink machine, a machine of life, a… wonderful creation.

 

Hopefully.

 

It could backfire horribly, but Johan was confident in himself, in his team, his family. They would be able to pull through.

 

Henry came into his office, not bothering to knock, just pushed his way into the room, scowling slightly at the sight of Joey working, again, after having run away from him. 

 

Henry’s fists came to rest on his hips.

 

“What is your problem?” he barked, his pale cheeks flushing with anger. Johan rose an eyebrow. “Seriously!”

 

“Mine?”

 

“Yes, yours,” Johan stood as Henry marched over to him, eyebrow arching up. Henry shoved him back. “What is your deal? First you get upset with me for not telling you that I love you, which is obvious, and then you run away when I try to give you some attention!”

 

“You’re a rollercoaster!” Joey snapped back, pinned against the wall. “Like the spider ride, you’re always tossing me around and spinning me, and I don’t know what to do! Do I sit d-down and feel the ride kill me slowly or jump off and pray for the best?!”

 

“You’re a son of a bitch,” Henry hissed, still red from anger, grabbing Joey’s tie and yanking him down. “You’re a bloody son of a bitch. No machine. We don’t need it. We need us. Each other. Our family, our creations. That’s it.”

 

Joey’s gaze traveled from Henry to the blueprint on his desk. Henry’s eyes followed, and he sighed, knocking Joey’s feet out from under him, and catching him.

 

“Forget it.” he told him, and kissed him. 

 

 Henry lifted Joey onto his own desk, pulling him down by around his neck to whisper sweet nothings that meant everything to the other’s heart, lips brushing against maroon pointed ears, Joey flushing and squirming. Henry clamored on top of him, and Johan could hardly breathe as Henry completely stole him over and replaced his abilities with mushy half thoughts, muddled and pinging one cry and one cry alone, a pleading murmur to remain with him forever, to be there, to build a family with him, and to forget all the madness that swirled around them, the badness in their past together. They looked each other in the eyes, and that was the end for Joey - it always had been, it always was Henry. Between his little breaths, hums, and the overwhelming sensation of Henry, Henry kissing him, Joey’s hand patted the space of the desk behind him, located the blueprint of the machine, and swept it into the trash, and he wrapped his now free arms around Henry. This was how it should be. Why should he put so much focus on the damned ink machine, anyways? It was not important. This was. The way they clicked, the way they were one and the same, yet so different. It was as close to perfection as anything could ever be. 

 

Johan pulled away for air, shaking with little coughs stifled by the crook Henry’s neck. 

 

“L-love you.”

 

“Love you too.”


	4. Will o' Wisp

Henry hated seeing Joey like that. Hollow eyed, jittery, harsh breathing. Still, it was a reality that had to be faced, every now and then. The way that Joey would spill his tea in shaky hands, the way his eyes welled with blazing tears. Henry wished he could just hug him and will it all away, but he could not, so there he sat in front of Joey, his thumb rubbing the back of the younger man’s hand. Joey stared directly in front of them, not looking at their hands or at Henry, rather at a black stain on the table. Henry hated that it was his fault Joey was acting like this, restless and nervous. ‘Something’s wrong in the world, I can feel it,’ Joey had told him over and over. ‘Something is very wrong.’

 

Joey could not sleep when something was wrong. Henry always joked that of all the members of the studio, Joey should have been the one who slept the best, but it was never so, unfortunately for the lanky chicano. Too much kept him up; stress, memories, worries, inventions, family problems, money issues, so much, too much. Henry was one of those worries, but everyone Joey met became one of his worries. He worried for those he never even met, at that. A sweetheart with the biggest soul Henry had ever met, scattered in the stars and spread through whispers and will o’ wisps, a hushed secret of immeasurable power, the most gentle giant ever. 

 

Anyone could see it, and yet, he still, somehow, had enemies, those sworn against him by blood. Even his own step father fell into their number. But Johan had a new family now.

 

Bertrum joined them in the pub room, chatting with Allison. They poured themselves coffee and sat beside the doctor, making idle conversation. Joey had not slept enough to understand the words flowing from their lips with such ease, such grace. His own words were marred by an ugly stutter that chased after his tongue, tripping his syllables and bashing his own melody of noises. So he often preferred to stay silent, though words burned at his throat, shrieking to be let out. Most of the time his will lost against his desire.

 

He hated the sound of his voice coming from his mouth, and would much rather hear it played back through a recording instead of himself. Not that his voice was bad, no, it was… wrong. Something about it just seemed so very wrong. He, at one point, had attempted to correct it with cigarettes and coffee. The first time he had a cigarette he was very young, what, five or six? Atabulus had offered it to him, and the young boy had taken it out of curiosity, and found he despised it. Atabulus had laughed softly, patting his head, telling him that he might like it one day. And no, he never did get used to it, nor did he ever like it, but he would rather pay twenty five cents for fifty staved off meals than two full days of work for one meal. Yet the same thing that saved him was a vice, his body craving the nicotine within the folds of tobacco, demanding it, forcing him to keep buying until he locked himself in his office for two weeks until the cravings dropped, and by then he was so hungry and sun sick that Henry had to drag him up to his garden where he absentmindedly ate nana as he lay in the heat of day until Henry brought him real food.

 

And so he sat there in front of his friends and family in complete and utter silence, merely staring at the table as he wished he had a cigarette between his fingers. He flinched, and took a draught of his overly sweetened tea, the honey within bringing him back to the present. He forced himself to calm, then. It was okay, nothing was wrong. Nothing at all. Nothing. At. All.

 

_ Keep telling yourself that, buddy. _

 

Johan jolted, looking over his shoulder to see if he could catch a glimpse of… whatever that was. Henry gave him a Look, and Joey shrank back in his seat. Bad look. Questioning look. Questions were bad. They meant something was wrong. 

 

No, no, no, calm down there. It’s fine. Just a little nerve wracked. Just a little bit.

 

There was a rumbling in his chest, an ache in his hands. He had to build.

 

It was an insatiable urge, he had to build  _ it _ . But Henry! Henry forbid him!

 

At the thought of Henry’s order, the rumbling in his chest turned into a shocking pain lacing through his lungs.

 

He calmly realized he could not breathe. 

 

How very interesting.

 

His free hand rose to his lips, under his nose, as if to check if he really was not breathing. How odd! No flow passed through them, and his eyes watered slightly. The rancid taste of bile clung to the back of his throat, and he rose, and quietly left to the bathroom, and prompt expelled the contents of his mouth and stomach into the toilet.

 

Ink.

 

Huh.

 

Joey’s head felt very light.

 

What was happening? Why was he on his knees? Did that come out of him?

 

Seemed like it.

 

He shook, but only a little, and rested his head against the rim of the toilet, lest he feel the urge to vomit again. When the need fell still, he got up again, spruced himself up in the cloudy mirror (he would remind one of the Franks to clean it), and made his way back to the conversing others. He sat heavily, Henry’s hand and his meeting silently in the middle. Henry’s expression was nearly unreadable, but Joey could see concern. Then Susie spoke up (when had she gotten there? Probably while he was in the restroom), her voice a tranquil melody. So different to Joey’s, he wondered how she even beard to pretend to date him. And Henry as well, how could he stand to hear his record scratch tones while his lovely baritone ran deep and true?

 

“We need an organist, Mr. Drew, Dr. Stein,” she told them, something Joey knew very well, something he knew would be addressed eventually, but he had always dreaded the moment when the topic would arise. Henry pondered it for a moment, and then spoke, “What about Johnathan Derekson agai-”

 

“NO!” Joey did not know when he got to his feet, eyes wide and wild, teeth bared, shoulders arched forward in defense. Those around stared at him, and he felt his neck burn with warmth as he sat back down slowly. “S-sorry. No. Not…  _ him _ . Never.”

 

Bertrum’s rusty gold eyes pierced Johan’s skin, digging into him, silent questions asked a million times with the mere raise of a thick, dark eyebrow. Johan closed his eyes, breathed in, counted to five, and let the air out. Best not to think of him. Best to remember that… the incident never occurred. It was in the, in a past life. Not this one. Here, now, he could start fresh. No fear in his veins at the thought of going to the music department. For there was no Johnathan Derekson there to prey on him. 

 

‘I do not mean to interrupt,’ Jameson signed to them after tapping Henry’s shoulder for all of their attention. ‘I know this one young lad, he works at a church as an organist, and he is looking for a better job. His name is Doe. Johnny Doe. An orphan. Good natured. Gentle. Not mute like me, but very quiet. Know how to sign very well. We enjoy each other’s company.’

 

So, Johnny Doe was called in for an interview, and he played beautifully. Joey was smitten by his stunning melodies and he and Henry hired him on the spot, to which they received a little bow and a grin from JJ. 

 

Nothing happened for a week, though there was an icy bridge between himself and Henry. They bumped into each other in the hall, and Joey nodded, about to head upstairs, but Henry’s hand caught Joey’s, pulling him into a different room.

 

“Why didn’t you want to hire Derekson?” he asked, puzzled. Joey felt bile rise in his throat, and his hands trembled. He shook his head. “Jo, you gotta answer me. We’re a team, right? And teams talk things out, together. What’s buggin’ you?”

 

“N-nothin’,” Joey lied through his teeth. Henry frowned at him, teal eyes roving over him sharply, so scrutinizing, Joey felt completely bare before the angel before him. His eyes were wide as Henry examined him.  _ Be honest _ , Henry’s eyes chided him.  _ Come on. Be honest _ . “D-Derekson… he….”

 

At the gentle but confused look in Henry’s eye, Joey felt a dam in his heart shatter.

 

Words spilled out of him faster than he could think.

 

Johnny first locking him in one of the art rooms, the fear that hung around him since that encounter, the meeting before that day, the day Joey broke. The last straw being Johnny on top of him, and he fighting.

 

Henry listened to Joey’s spill of emotions and sounds and record scratched stories, soaking up every word without a single sound of disgust or hatred for Johan.

 

Joey stared at his hands as the tirade ended, looking at the scars criss crossing them. He instinctively put a hand to his belt, confirming it were there. He shuddered as he felt Henry’s hand join his on the belt. But it was flat and warming, not gripping and chill. A hand came to the underside of Joey’s face, not quite his cheek, not quite his jaw. Henry guided him to meet his eyes, those gorgeous spheres of earthly glory. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” Henry somberly apologized, and Joey could see the regret in his eyes. “I never should have hired him in the first place without asking you. And you paid the price. He… he tried to… God, I’m so sorry, Joey.”

 

Henry could not bring himself to finish the sentence, and he shivered. Joey shivered right after him, but not a full body shiver, but a shudder that ran from where Henry’s hands rested on his body and foghorned outwards.

 

“Honeybee,” Henry crooned, leaning to rest his forehead against Joey’s. “You work yourself far too hard, darling. Why don’t we take some time to ourselves, yeah?”

 

“Too much t-to do,” Joey protested, but his body betrayed him, arms wrapping around Henry’s shoulders. Henry smirked, and Joey blushed. “In all seriousness, doc, there really is a lot to do. Paperwork f-for Johnny, storyboards for the next episode, and bills to s-sort thro-ooh, oh, ah, Hen, c-cut that o-out.” 

 

“Cut what out?” Henry asked innocuously with a smile pressed against Joey’s neck, where he placed little nipping kisses. “I’m not doing anything.”

 

“You v-very well are doing something!” Joey snapped back, then a hand flew to his mouth to keep himself quiet. As low as he could manage, he hissed into Henry’s ear. “S-stop that or else!”

 

“Or else what?” Henry questioned, his hands roaming all over Joey’s sensitive arms, making the dark man stiffen. “You’ve got an empty threat there, Jo.”

 

“I will suspend you in the e-elevator shaft,” Joey seethed, red and squirming. Henry only laughed, and continued. “For three hours!”

 

“Better make it six,” Henry’s voice so close to his jugular  sent shockwaves through him. “So that I’ll get out when work ends. Mmm, that would be pleasant, and then I’d spend the whole night getting some sweet, delicious revenge.”

 

“You’re a perverted bastard,” Joey grumbled, wiggling in Henry’s tight hold. Henry chuckled again, “That may be so, but you’re my muse, my sybaritic muse.”

 

The door burst open, and Jack and Wally ran in. 

 

“What is it now?” Henry asked with annoyance. “If you broke something, don’t care.”

 

“No, it’s, uh,” Jack seemed at a loss, turning to Wally, who gravely said, “It’s Sammy. He’s sick.”

 

Sammy was not in good condition when Joey and Henry came into the infirmary. His eyes were closed tightly, his breathing erratic. Joey’s hand slowly came to Sammy’s forehead, and pulled away quickly. The music director was burning up. Johan turned to Henry at a loss, the future doctor nodding and coming over himself, feeling Sammy’s chest and throat. Sammy groaned. 

 

Henry frowned.

 

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he admitted quietly. “He’s definitely sick with  _ something _ , but I have no idea what. I’ll swab him and try to get a reading at the lab.”

 

Joey was staring at Sammy’s face.  _ Something is very wrong _ , his mind whispered. He leaned over his friend, and put a hand over his eyes, waiting for the tell tale flutter to let him know the man opened his eyes. He pulled his hand back, and stared at what should have been blue eyes.

 

The blackness sucked Joey in. 

 

Henry screamed, Jack jumped back, JJ crossed himself, and Wally fainted. 

 

Joey tilted his head, watching the sheen of ink follow him. 

 

Sammy was not seeing him, as he seemed to still be asleep. His strangely discolored eyes fell shut once more, and there was silence.

 

Henry swallowed, and swallowed again. 

 

“I’m getting this swab to the lab right now,” he stated tightening his coat around himself, and running out. Joey silently picked up the passed out Wally, setting him in an armchair. The others silently filed out. Joey only stared quietly.

 

He left the room, going down to the finance office. 

 

“How much can we afford to pay for Mr. Lawrence being in hospice?” he asked Grant when he located him. Grant looked at him with some surprise, but looked at a paper anyways. After some calculations, he answered, “Enough, for certain.”

 

“Good to know,” Joey wryly replied. Grant shifted where he stood. “What’s the matter, Reb Cohen? Spit it out, I can t-tell when you’ve got a question.”

 

“I would like to go on a vacation, to Germany, with my wife,” Grant sighed. “How long of a leave can we have?”

 

“How does a month sound?” Joey answered with some exhaustion. Grant smiled and nodded. “I can take c-care of the finances until you get back.”

 

_ If you get back. _

 

Joey squashed down the whisper. 

 

He went up to his computer, and searched for the news, hooking it up to a small television to scroll through faster. A sneaking suspicion crept into him, and he looked up Disney and Inkwell. 

 

Disney studios close due to strange illness.

 

Inkwell studios close due to strange illness. 

 

He sat back, head resting on hand. Well.

 

Well.

 

Well.

 

A smile crept onto his lips, not a happy one.

 

Oh, well.

 

Three weeks passed, and more and more people fell ill. Everyone walked around Brooklyn with gas masks, California was under quarantine, and doctors everywhere were being driven up the wall searching for a cure, Henry included.

 

He continued down to the BendyLand work station, and he quietly slipped into Bertrum’s office, not saying anything, just leaning against his uncle in silence.

 

“Something wrong?”

 

Joey only shrugged.

 

“Mm, ok, just don’t bother me too much, little one,” Bertrum jokingly scolded him. Johan nodded, and he felt his eyes flutter shut in drowsiness, and the fatigue slowly sapped his energy until he fell asleep, hearing the thrum of Bertrum’s heart….

 

“Mr. Polk! Calm down!”

 

Joey woke with a start.

 

“I will not calm down, there is bloody black shit seepin’ out of my throat!” Norman barked back, then doubled over in coughs. “Where the hell is Drew!?”

 

Johan peered out of Bertrum’s office, setting down the elder’s coat on his chair carefully. 

 

“C-can I help you, Mr. Polk?” he asked timidly. A bright glare pierced him. “Is… something th-the matter, Mr. Polk?”

 

“I got whatever…  _ thing _ Sammy has,” Norman coughed. “Hell, half the music department is out!”

 

Joey stared at him in complete silence.

 

“Go home, Mr. Polk,” he said softly. “Go home. Everyone. Go home.”

 

“What’s goin’ on?” Lacie asked him as everyone began to file out in shock. “What’s the matter?”

 

“Dunno,” Johan answered in honesty, quietly. “But I don’t think that it’s going to end well.”

 

“Uh….”

 

“Go home, Lacie.”

 

“I ain’t leavin’ you like this.” She sounded dismayed. “You look like… like a train wreck.”

 

“That’s fine,” Joey smiled for the first time in weeks. “It’s fine.”

 

He went to visit Sammy in the hospital later, and he took the man’s hand into his own. The clammy ink flowed all over the musician, hooked up to various machines. 

 

It was entirely silent aside from the beeps of Sammy’s monitor. 

 

Henry came in after a few hours, looking exhausted. They said nothing to one another.

 

There was nothing to say.

 

Sammy’s breathing was so slow, impossibly so.

 

Henry’s eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks devoid of color, his body stiff and wracked with aches of working nonstop for nearly two months.

 

The sickness had spread to Europe, and Joey knew exactly how. Most countries were barring their borders, and Grant and Sori were forced to remain in Germany. Australia stopped allowing prisoners in, Greenland and Iceland stopped letting anyone in or out, and the entire world was in a state of panic, everyone laying down their arms to allow their doctors to intervene and try to find a cure. Johan’s lips were curled in a mirthless smile.

 

_ You know what you’ve done _ . 

 

No, he bloody did not, if he did, he would not have done it!

 

Even Night Vale had fallen victim to the illness, Earl having called Johan and joked the small desert town should be called Night Valetudinarianism. 

 

No one had died from the queer ailment yet, though most infected people were in a comatose, ink covered state. Such as Sammy.

 

Sammy suddenly stirred, and Joey knew he was looking at him.

 

He grabbed Joey by the shoulders, yanking him close, his mouth brushing Joey’s ear.

 

“The whispers, Joey Drew, the pipes whisper….”

 

The pacemaker flatlined.

 

Johan’s head pounded and ached. He had no time left for anything, dedicating all his effort to ease the pain of the outer world. Even though he was the only person left in the studio, he still could not shake the feeling of sounds, the hissing creaks causing jolts of fear to lace through his every nerve and bit. Sammy’s dying words resounded in his head over and over.

 

The pipes whisper.

 

_ You know it _ . 

 

Shut up! Shut up shut up!

 

_ As you wish, Mr. Drew _ .

 

He had locked himself in his office, writing and storyboarding and musicing, researching and struggling to find a cure, remembering Lacie’s death, and Bertrum’s shortly after. His family was crumbling around him. So he worked, he struggled, he tried his best to smile every day for the few thousand people left in the nightmarish life. Johan developed a watch, similar to his old one, but instead of marking runs, it marked how many people were left alive, and it was far too few, far too few. But he worked, he worked hard to make others happy.

 

Bendy was a small light onto a darkening world - literally.

 

The sun was being blotted out, slowly, slowly, slowly, as was the moon and stars, the skies slowly losing their light.

 

_ Something is wrong _ .

 

He knew that, but did not know what to do about it.

 

So Joey continued to release toons on his own to a shrinking world. California was bombed to prevent the pathogen from spreading out. Henry’s lab had managed to discover that the pathogen was a virus, a rapidly evolving one at that. It traveled by air, land, and sea, by touch and breath, it was impossible to wash off aside from by using acetone, it took over the world ever so slowly, but far too fast.

 

And the numbers clicked away.

 

He still made his cartoons, he still worked, he still volunteered in hospitals, where doctors fell ill faster due to the amount of patients and how fast the pathogen evolved to overcome their cure efforts. Joey smelled like ink and acetone. 

 

He did not want anyone to know he too was sick, and he made sure to be alone whenever the urge to spill his insides came up.  He hated that whenever it happened, the numbers on his watch flew away all the faster.

 

_ You let it out _ .

 

No, he did not let anything out!

 

_ You’re patient zero, you know. _

 

No, no, it… it was not him. It could not be, right? 

 

_ You fool _ . 

 

Joey spun around to see wherever the hell the voices were coming from.

 

No where! No one was around! He was alone!

 

His gaze lifted, and he saw… the pipes.

 

He never installed them in his office… how were they here?

 

And there were pipes in Grant and Sammy’s offices as well….

 

The whispers.

 

_ You’re finally cracking the code, aren’t you _ ?

 

“I didn’t install pipes in here,” he said, aloud, more to hear his own voice than to respond to the cackling sounds. He walked to the wall, looking up at them in suspicion. “How did they get here?”

 

_ You brought us here. _

 

The pipes creaked, groaned, and shifted. Almost as though they were alive.

 

_ We are alive, Joey Drew. You gave it to us. _

 

Wait.

 

Wait wait wait.

 

He never even built the machine… how the hell did the pipes appear!?

 

_ We are your veins _ .

 

The hell?!

 

The building shook, as though… as though it were…  _ laughing _ .

 

The pipes snaked forward, binding his wrists, and he screamed as metal pierced into his flesh, driving into his veins, pulling him down to his knees as he felt blood siphoned from him. He shook and screamed, thrashed violently and fell off of his bed.

 

A dream.

 

Just a dream.

 

It was just a dream.

 

He breathed, fast, in and out.

 

He forced his breathing to steady.

 

In, and out, in, and out, breathe slow.

 

That was all he could do, just breathing, only breathing.

 

Henry came into his room, his eyes red from crying, from sleepless nights.

 

He whispered to him of Susie and Allison’s passings, of Norman’s fading, of everyone around them slipping away into the black inky void. The graves were full and filling, and no one was around them ever again, too much pain wracking through everyone’s bodies together, all of humanity shuddering and shaking as one large infected body, weak and weakening and one day to be gone.

 

The Flynns, the Franks, the music department, the Bendy Land workers, everyone. They all were gone, they all were fading away so fast, too fast. 

 

And Joey still, still, still, worked and created. And the pipes still giggled and whispered. 

 

The pipes that should not be there. They were unnatural.

 

He and Henry wept together for those they lost.

 

“Do you hear the whispers?” Joey asked him. “Do you hear them in th-the pipes?”

 

“No, I don’t,” Henry murmured, holding him close. “But I believe you that they are.”

 

“Ok….” Johan muttered, burying his face against Henry’s chest. “I hate them. I hate them so much. They want me dead.”

 

“Are you sure? Then why aren’t you…” Henry swallowed. “You know…  _ dead _ , yet?”

 

“I don’t know,” he bemoaned. “I really don’t know.”

 

“Do you think you can make anything to slow it?”

 

“I have. My locket.”

 

“Your pin?”

 

“No, my necklace.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Joey took the chain off and handed it to Henry. 

 

“Why are you giving this to me?”

 

“Give it to Linda.”

 

“...”

 

“Please, g-give it to Linda, please.” Joey’s eyes watered with sadness, with pain. “Keep her safe.”

 

“Joey… but what about you?” Henry was torn, but his hand joined Joey’s on the gold chain. “You need to be safe, too….”

 

“Linda is more import-tant,” Joey assured him. “Please. Give it to her.”

 

Henry sighed, tears falling from his cheeks, and kissed Joey’s cheeks.

 

“Stay safe, darling.”

 

“I’ll try my best.”

 

In reality, Joey had no plans of being safe.

 

He had to find the cure.

 

Chemicals bubbled and broiled. Joey sighed, shutting off the Bunsen burners when the night grew too late.

 

Books in numerous languages were flipped through, medicinal books and magical books, and nothing led to anything. The whispers were now at a murmur. They giggled and mocked him, pipes following him wherever he walked. The count dropped to a few hundred. The hospitals were empty, the mass graves left uncovered. Joey would spend hours for the dead, trying to give each a proper send off to their ends. Henry was haggard and exhausted.

 

They both prayed for Linda’s health. She was all they had left. Joey did not want to tell Henry what the 3 on his watch meant.

 

“I’m going out to look for anyone that might need help,” Henry hoarsely told Joey, slipping out of the house. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

 

Joey watched Henry leave, holding Linda in his arms.

 

“Where is everyone, Uncle Joey?” Linda quietly asked him, fiddling with her new locket. “Is everyone… dead?”

 

“Yes,” Joey told her, hugging her tightly with tears blazing in his eyes. “Yeah. Just about everyone. It’s you, me, and your dad left. Don’t tell him, dear little Linda, don’t tell him.”

 

“Am I gonna die too?” Linda asked with big blue eyes. Joey was silent, and held her tighter. “Oh.”

 

“Hopefully you’ll be just fine,” Joey whispered. “Just fine….”

 

He tucked her in that night, pressing a kiss to her forehead. After she fell asleep, he held the locket, whispering words of magic and enchantment, ones and zeros, and his life flowed into her own, and he gasped in pain as it seeped out of him, his soul shrieking and clinging to his life.

 

He collapsed against her bed, shuddering.

 

_ You can’t keep that up forever _ .

 

He would do his best to.

 

Henry came home very late, and Joey made them a meal of whatever vegetation was left, the minerals of the earth slowly draining away, the animals and plants dying along with it.

 

“You look tired,” Joey sighed, reaching to cup Henry’s face, pulling him close. Henry, fatigue driven, stumbled to Joey, wrapping arms around him. He replied, “I am tired.”

 

“I think the whole world is,” Joey murmured, kissing his cheeks, his shoulder, his hands. Wanting him to rest. “Are you going to go out again tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, but I think I’ll take one of the abandoned jets,” Henry yawned, and began walking to the bedroom, pulling Joey with him. “Might be gone for a few weeks.”

 

“Don’t go so far,” Johan begged, kissing him some more, craving his affections. “Stay around here, please, don’t go s-so far away from us….”

 

“I have to,” Henry suspired, leaning into Joey’s touches. “I have to go.”

 

“Be back soon,” Joey told him the next morning. Linda was still sleeping. Henry nodded, jumping into the jet, and he cradled Joey’s chin up to face him, and he kissed him once. “I wish you luck.”

 

“See you soon.”

 

Joey went back home in a run. 

 

_ Something is wrong _ .

 

Johan should have been faster.

 

He should have known better.

 

Ink ran after him. Henry’s home was covered in the blackness, and Johan grabbed his shovel from off the ground, the shovel he used to bury his friends and family.

 

He cursed himself as he smashed through a window, glass cutting his fingers and palm.

 

Giving her the locket only had bought her a few precious days.

 

He should have given more, given her more of his life, given everything, anything, he should have kept her alive. 

 

Ink barred the door to her room, and his shovel smashed against it, over and over.

 

Finally breaking through wood, he stumbled into her room, finding the ink already taking her, pulling her soul from her weakened form, dancing about her limp fingers in mockery of him, the locket fighting for her soul to return to her.

 

He screamed, unsure of what he said, and leapt to her, unsure of what he could do, lost and confused and pained.

 

He had to save her.

 

He poured all his energy into her, into the locket, and she breathed again.

 

Oh, that was so very close, too close.

 

He remained by her side until Henry returned, only leaving to repair the damage he did in his mad dash to her side, and the doctor was downtrodden and disheartened.

 

“Feels like we’re the only people left,” Henry ‘joked’ over their measly meal. Joey only smiled with exhaustion. “I’ll be going out to scavenge tomorrow. There are hardly any animals out there, either, barely any plant life. It feels so… empty.”

 

Joey only nodded.

 

He was not awake when Henry left the house the next day, too drained from giving Linda energy.

 

It was too little.

 

Johan’s faith died with Linda. 

 

What god would allow that?

 

What god would thrust him into such a nightmare?

 

Still, he got on his knees before her ink embraced form.

 

He clasped his hands.

 

He wept silently.

 

He begged and prayed.

 

Anything to get him out of the hell he was in.

 

Out of the despair.

 

And maybe it would be the same god to take him out.

 

To set him free.

 

To fix his wings.

 

_ You will never fly _ .

 

He did not want to fly, he just wanted Linda back.

 

He quietly covered her body with a white sheet, then thought better of it, and laid a plan. 

 

Henry came home later, and Joey wordlessly offered him his food, one of the last honey breads. 

 

Silence reigned.

 

“How was your day?” Joey asked, the normality of the question so very wrong. Henry shrugged, “Not much out there to do, no plants or animals either. Just all empty.”

 

It was quiet again.

 

“How’s Linda?” Henry asked softly, pushing away his half eaten meal.

 

“She’s resting,” Johan replied. 

 

“I’m going to check on her,” Henry sighed, and he got up with slow motions. Joey nodded, staring at the knife he used to slice the bread. He picked it up, just as he planned he would.

 

Henry’s back was turned, entering their daughter’s room.

 

“Henry?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I love you, you know that, right?”

 

“Yeah. I know.” Henry walked to the side of Linda’s bed, sitting beside her, looking at her frail form. She looked as though she was sleeping. Joey was numb as he moved over to Henry, and he hugged him around his shoulders with one arm. Henry’s hands rested on his arm. He smiled slightly, eyes closed. “I lov- HK!”

 

Joey felt Henry’s body go stiff, the blood dripping slowly onto the knife in his right hand. He shook with a sob. He had wanted Henry to pass away happy, and he managed to do that. He managed to do that.

 

_ You’re all alone now, Joey _ .

 

He knew that all too well.

 

He lifted Henry first, taking him down to the garden, the flowerless and empty garden, to the pre dug graves, and laid him to rest, burying him, then he wrapped Linda in the shroud, and buried her as well. He coded up two tombstones, but he could not bear to add an inscription to either, only writing the names, Henry Stein and Linda Stein.

 

He sat in front of the graves, covered in dirt, blood, and ink.

 

Tears dripped down his cheeks, and his eyes were dull.

 

His watch read One.

 

It was the end of it all, was it not? Joey sat alone in front of those two graves until the moon rose above him, and he then hefted his shovel to his shoulder, its once light weight now an immeasurable burden. He followed his bleeding heart, and coughed with every step he took, his body wracked with chills. Slowly, slowly, slowly, he buried the world, the humans, the animals, the insects, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

 

Johan managed to do it within a year.

 

He thought so, at least. The stars were slowly winking out of existence, the moon nearly entirely covered with black, the Sun’s plasmic energy being sapped away.

 

Time no longer held a meaning to him. It was the same thing as the void.

 

Complete and total apathy.

 

The very colors and essence of the world was gone, everything a painful, agonizing, glaring black and white.

 

His bees were gone, his garden empty aside from the two harrowing tombstones. The televisions were static, the radio dead air.

 

Dead air.

 

There was no life, no where. 

 

Joey could feel it, and he thanked whatever looked out for him that Gracehopper was still with him, at least for those next few days, or weeks, or months, he was just glad he was not alone in his task, his burden of sending the deceased to their final resting grounds. So many people, hundreds of thousands of millions.

 

The world was soon all buried, and Johan stood on the roof of his ink soaked building, looking up at the sun as the last rays shone, as the last sparks were drowned out by ink. The oceans beyond the studio were ink as well, the dirt ink, everywhere ink.

 

Gracehopper fluttered down to rest on his shoulder.

 

Her wings were slow, pulsing weakly. The sun was blotted out, and she tried to lift herself, yet her strength was all gone.

 

Joey kissed her air like wings, and tried not to cry.

 

“You can rest now. You’ve been amazing.”

 

She fluttered, once, twice, and then grew still.

 

The light faded from her body.

 

Joey wept, and carefully buried her tiny, miniscule body. Who ever dreamt a man would weep over and bury a moth? 

 

Johan lay on top of Henry’s grave.

 

He did nothing else.

 

There was nothing to do.

 

An anger welled in him as his tears flowed from his eyes.

 

Why him?! 

 

Why was he left alone?!

 

_ Because you are immune _ .

 

TO WHAT?! IMMUNE TO WHAT!?

 

_ To yourself _ .

 

Joey sobbed, curling up. He did not know what else to do. He was completely and totally alone.

 

He got up in a haze.

 

Where was his shotgun?

 

No, it was not his, it was Rico’s. It was in Night Vale, where it belonged.

 

He got onto his bike, then remembered that fuel did not work any more, and so, began a walk instead. Maybe the cold of the now icy desert would do the job.

 

His stomach ached from the lack of food, his head pounded from the loss of sunlight.

 

Somehow, he managed to get all the way to his hometown.

 

He crept into the Ramirez Estate, and found the shotgun, still in its case. 

 

Fully loaded.

 

His hands trembled as he began to walk all the way back home.

 

He lay on top of Henry’s grave, and put the gun’s barrel right against his gullet, his eyes closed in tranquility.

 

In heaven, everything is fine.

 

He inhaled, and

 

Bang.

 

Exhaled.

 

He pushed himself off the ground, numb.

 

His body… absorbed the bullet.

 

He could feel the lead in his veins, in his throat, forced to his heart.

 

Dizziness washed over him, and he ran to the well, and threw up into the ink that resided where once was water. The ink that was forced from his own system splashed down, and he felt like a monster, a monster that destroyed everything.

 

_ You are a monster _ .

 

He shook. 

 

He crawled to his empty apiaries. 

 

How badly he wished to hear the hum of his bees once more.

 

He lay there, on the grass, and he wished with all his heart that he was not alone.

 

He cried.

 

And cried.

 

And cried until he could cry no more.

 

The dead grass beneath his was scratchy and unforgiving, just as the empty, dark, uncaring sky above him. Where were the stars? The moon, the sun, the clouds?

 

It was all gone.

 

He felt it was time to accept it.

 

He could not fix everything.

 

He could not pretend that it would be alright, it would not be.

 

But he could still get back up.

 

_ No. It’s game over. _

 

Not until he says so.

 

_ GIVE UP! YOU’RE ALONE! _

 

Not as alone as anyone would think, he smiled, and put his hand to his pin.

 

He could do this.

 

_ NO YOU CAN’T! YOU CAN’T! _

 

He knew he could.

 

_ NO! _

 

He breathed in, full of hope.

 

A buzz.

 

_ NO! _

 

An incredulous smile burst onto his lips as he turned around with shock and amazement.

 

A bee, one solitary bee, fluttered to life.

 

He laughed, he laughed, that was all it took! 

 

A good dose of hope!

 

_ It will be squashed. _

 

“No, it won’t,” Joey swore. “I’ll never stop hopin’. And your devilish, fiendish, no good, blithering, pathetic, drainin’, pitiful whispers ain’t gonna stop me!”

 

“ _ Then I myself might _ ,” the being’s voice was so soft, a whisper, a maddening noise thrumming from the base of Joey’s feet to the very tips of his hair. The Ink Machine rose around him, it’s eyes burning bright and golden with the force of a thousand suns, the millions it stole from the sky. Joey stood tall and proud before it, the solitary bee landing on his head to rest. “ _ So, Joey Drew _ .” 

 

“So indeed.” Johan smiled. “Though I’m quite sure you’re mistaken.  _ You’re _ Joey Drew.”

 

“ _ Don’t play games with me, snake, _ ” it hissed. “ _ You can’t win now. It’s too late _ .”

 

“Really now?” Johan grinned. “I don’t think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up in the comments if you saw that coming :3


	5. Letting it All Grow

Johan’s computer hummed to life as he took it in his hands, running one over the cracked glass that made the screen. The ink machine hissed and sputtered.

 

“ _ You cannot win! _ ” ink welled from the ground, from the world. Joey ignored it, patting the bee on his hand, giving it one of the wires of the computer to hold betwixt some of her small legs. The computer’s power rose even higher. “ _ You will not win! _ ” 

 

“What are you going to do to stop me?” Johan asked calmly, raising an eyebrow. “You’re just a machine. My machine. That I never built.”

 

_ Exactly _ . 

 

It seeped back into the ground, the black and white and null ground. 

 

_ I killed everything, because you failed to complete your duty. Your whole world, gone, eaten by your own desperate hunger. _

 

Johan’s fingers landed on the keys, and he sat on the ground, typing as fast as he could. The grass’ green glow slowly returned to lustrous light, the sunshine above cracking through the inky casing that held it hidden and far away. His heart beat, beat, beat, faster and faster, joyous happiness flowing through him. He could restore what was lost, he could pull everything back.

 

_ No, you cannot. _

 

Metal shot up from the now soft and minerally earth, chains forming in the air, diving down to grab his wrists. He yelped as the scorching hot metal gripped his arms, lifting him up, and hurling him through the wall of the studio. The gravestones of Linda and Henry loomed before him, and instead of driving the spoke of despair through his weak heart, a spurt of hope burst through his veins. His computer came to his hands once more, and click, click, nana plants bloomed, their catnip tips flowing mint fresh life wafting through the air.

 

With the scent, roses bloomed. 

 

Stars winked in the sky.

 

Darkness. The ink machine loomed above Joey, golden cogs churning. It was in it’s most perfect form, unmade by human hands, but still, volatile, reckless, and imperfect for a… human world. Something untouched simply could not be. Perfection could not exist, should not exist, the call of  perfection a deadly vice and ensnaring trap that sucked each being into an endless portcullis of spiralling doom, seeking something that will never and cannot be unleashed, for if it were, the world would not stand against the flaming torch of awesome perfection, perfection itself leaching any imperfection from the perfectly imperfect earth.

 

Joey picked himself off of the wooden floor, limping to the wall in a retreat, his hand searching for something the haze in his mind was not sure of, something… with a wooden shaft.

 

His calloused fingers wrapped around the fire axe smoothly, the ridges in the wood a comforting weight in his empty hand. 

 

That would do.

 

It would do nicely.

 

When the wood began creaking around Johan, the infected beams bursting asunder to reach for him, the axe swung, breaking each board like it was nothing, simply air.

 

He forced his way out of the studio, and summoned his computer and the bee holding it. 

 

Fending off the pipes and wood with his left hand, typing as fast as he could (without making typos) with his right, he coded a function, a new function.

 

_ No. _

 

A chain shot up once more, clanging against the axe Johan swung to fight it, but he was too slow. His wrist was caught, and dragged to the earth, his eye landing a mere inch from the blade of the axe. His breathing rushed, too fast. His wrist hurt too much from the pressure driving it into the ground. Gasping, he grabbed the axe in his right hand. 

 

Too much, too much.

 

He rose the axe above his hand, ready to drive it down, anything to relieve the pain.

 

Wait, no no no, what was he thinking, what was he doing? These ideas were not his.

 

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear your whispers!” Joey yelled with a snarl, throwing the axe down, gripping his wrist and pulling, trying to tug himself free. “Shut up!”

 

_ I did not say anything, Mr. Drew. _

 

“You did! You tried to make me cut my hand off!” Johan barked, managing to pull the chains up, too little to rise out of, but the pain slackened briefly, then spiked once more. “Shut up, you sniveling insidious orangutan!”

 

_ It’s only your own mind. _

 

“Shut it!” Johan gasped, trying his utmost best to get his hand out of the chains. His panicked eyes landed on his thumb, and he remembered a trick Rico taught him.

 

Grip thumb by base. 

 

Breathe in.

 

Breathe out.

 

Breath in.

 

Brea

 

Pull.

 

He held in his scream as his hand burned with the pain.

 

His hand slipped out of the chains, and he whimpered as he replaced his thumb with an unnatural and creaking pop. He forced his breathing to stay regular. In, and out, and repeat. It’s ok, it’s fine.  

 

_ You’re so very foolish. _

 

“Get out of my head,” he wheezed, pressing his injured hand to his stomach to wait for the agony to abate. “Ungrateful g-garbage eating weasel.”

 

_ Such abusive language! _

 

“Screw you,” Johan continued to type with his right hand, his left slowly healing. He daintily set it aside his left, and he sped up once more. The building behind him creaked and pulsed, shifting into the perfect machine’s will. “Aw, shi….”

 

He was pulled away from his computer, both his hands reaching for it, trying to take it with him, but he fell forward onto the cold hard ground. His hands scrambled for a hold, his ankles gripped by chains and pipes. Johan managed to grab something, his weapon, the axe, his heart thumping, blazing, beating.

 

He was dragged down, and he twisted onto his back to aim.

 

The machine churned, maw firey and open to take him. 

 

The axe embedded itself into the ‘eye’ of the machine.

 

It roared.

 

Johan aimed the shotgun at its heart.

 

And he fired.

 

Tight. Too tight. His ankles and wrists ached from being held down to the cold dirty floor at such an awkward angle. The leaders of the ring looked down at him as their lackeys kept him pinned, though he would not have fought anyways. Fight was something he was out of at that moment. He was resigned to whatever fate would become him, knowing that if he were to struggle, his punishment would be all the worse. 

 

“You’re a very brave idiot,” one of the men said after a long, long, painstakingly long silence. “Utterly an idiot - but brazen nonetheless.”

 

“You know the rules of this place, Ramirez,” a woman with a long cigarette holder drawled, flicking her wrist. A bit of ash landed on his leg through one of the tears in his cheap pants, and he flinched as it burned him. “If someone loses, they lose. They can only collect or keep what is left, even if it is nothing.”

 

“I c-couldn’t just leave them there,” Joey was aware his voice was a shaky and panicked near whine. “I agree to have it h-happen to me, but it’s not fair for someone to lose the last things they h-have left! I… I remember when it happened to me, and… I wish it on no one.”

 

“Still. Rules are rules.”

 

“P-please….”

 

“Punishments are the way rules are enforced.”

 

“Reconsider, I b-beg of you….”

 

“No.”

 

Johan bit back a sob as the bottom of his shirt was pulled up. While there were not many marrs, a few nicks and bruises dotted his gut. A curved knife was pulled out of the smoking woman’s sleeve, and she handed it to one of the men. It had gemstones in the hilt, the pommel a large, animalistic ruby. Joey was lifted off the floor and half dragged, half led to a tilted stand with leather straps along it. He was pulled into place, the straps snapping around his arms and chest, and his legs, binding him to the slate. His shirt was rolled up to leave his stomach exposed as previously. Joey’s head dropped, his tears flowing freely from his eyes. He just wanted to do what was good, rules be damned!

 

The knife was cold as it tugged at the flesh of his stomach. He resisted the urge to jolt away, or even vomit. Still, the icy blade stood still on the plane of his skin. 

 

“Are you left handed or right?”

 

“L-left,” he answered honestly. The blade switched sides of his body to come onto his left hip. 

 

“How old are you?”

 

Joey only whimpered.

 

“Repeat that.”

 

He opened his mouth, and no sound came out.

 

“Twenty one?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“Older?”

 

Shake.

 

“Younger, then. Nod when I get to the right number. Twenty… nineteen… eighteen… seventeen.”

 

Nod.

 

“I see. Being that you are three years younger than the punishing age, your punishment will be reduced by three letters.”

 

He remained silent.

 

“Instead of cheater; it shall be liar.”

 

Johan grimaced.

 

The knife dug into his skin, the twisted nib driving in, and he screamed then, and he screamed as each glyph was carved into his stomach, the pain taking him back in his memories to the Ramirez Estate, to Paul, the angry words on his back. There is nothing on his back.

 

L

I

A

R

 

As the last curve in the letters was completed, the straps were removed from Johan’s exhausted and shaking body. He collapsed to the floor, groaning and doubling inwards to pressurize the ache and burn in his body. Footsteps slowly faded away, leaving him alone. He reached his arm out to stop them, and hissed from the strain. Blood pooled through his fingers.

 

Memory ceased, and he rose from his half slumber, mostly void, partially thoughts. 

 

He groaned on the ground, curling inwards. His body burned. What was happening?

 

His thumb ached as he pushed himself up.

 

The studio was half of a wreck, the rest standing, more or less. He limped over to the axe, dropping the now useless shotgun. It was out of bullets, anyways. Used one on himself, the other on the machine.

 

He was so hungry and exhausted. But he stumbled his way to the computer to continue writing the new code. A new code, but for the past. It was to go back, to build the machine to contain that hellish version, that blinding and all consuming perfect version. Black clawed at his vision, his exhaustion threatening to overcome him and knock him over.  Yet, he forced himself to stay awake, typing, slowly, slowly, slowly, keys clicking in a steady rhythm.

 

Keep going.

 

Almost there.

 

_ You’re a fool to think you can beat me _ .

 

Johan sighed, rolling his eyes, continuing to type. 

 

“I’m not trying to.”

 

_ Oh? So what… are you trying to do, Mr. Drew? _

 

“Undo my mistake.”

 

_ HA! There are too many.  _

 

“Of  _ you _ .”

 

The building shifted with another groan. Johan picked up his computer, and simply moved out of the range of the chains and pipes. 

 

He sat, and slowly typed.

 

A pain shot through his body, making him wince and gasp. 

 

_ I already own you. _

 

Johan screamed as pain rippled through him, and he vomited, revolted by the ink in his-

 

In… his… system….

 

_ Patient zero. _

 

Joey recoiled, hands clamping over his ears, but the whispers! the whispers snuck into his mind, forcing him to listen, to hear.

 

_ The highest immunity. You alone.  _

 

“Shut up!” Johan roared, trying to ignore the fiery ink in his veins. “Get out of me!”

 

Laughter.

 

“SHUT UP!”

 

His side seared with a pain unlike any before, a knife stabbing from the inside out. Another scream, his hand pressing to his hip, where his scar resided. Blood, blood, ink and blood.

 

L I A R

 

He sobbed with the pain in his capillaries and in his cells, the agonizing ink stealing all his faculty and forcing him to his knees.

 

_ You lose _ .

 

“NO!” Joey got up, painfully, slowly. “I won’t!”

 

_ Oh really? _

 

“Yes, really,” Johan snarled, gripping his side where the pain seemed to be the worst, yet the pain was everywhere entirely. “I will get back up, and you can’t stop me. Y-you are not going to win. Not now, not ever.”

 

Johan was thrown up into the air, and he did not come back down, instead he scrambled in the air to get to the trellis, and he slammed against the wall. The thorns and vines pricked his skin, digging into his hands and body where his flesh hit, biting and clawing into him. He gasped, but gripped back, and pulled himself up, slowly, steadily, ignoring the scratches and tears. 

 

Keep… going….

 

With a sharp, stabbing pain to his wrist, he lost control of his right hand, and he found himself being jolted back, and slipped several feet down. The ground below and the two tombstones wavered and wobbled in his terror stricken vision. He panted as his left arm ached, but his right hand remained stubbornly paralyzed by his side. Joey tried to catch his breath, and failed to. The air simply eluded him, seeping from his lungs far too quickly, entering far too slow. His grip slipped, and his side was given new thorny scratches. He whimpered, but began making his way up again, ripping his back, his heels jabbing each backwards upward step against the wall.

 

He collapsed onto the roof, gripping his frozen right hand, tremblingly lifting it to his eyes to inspect it. Ink soaked through his clothes, his breathing panting, panting, gasping, panting. His body felt wet, violated, sickly and torn. What was wrong with him?

 

_ Patient zero…. _

 

The words were sing song and calling, like one would call to a naughty child hiding in a cabinet to avoid the freightening switch. 

 

_ Ah, there you are! Come along, dear little Joey Drew. _

 

Johan’s knees buckled, and he fell forward, the empty feeling in his arm having spread to his legs, and he rose again without his volition. His already panicked breathing sped up even more, his body was not under his control,  _ his body was being puppeted,  _ **_his body was being hijacked from what little he had left_ ** . 

 

_ You’re mine. _

 

He screamed, trying to hold himself back, causing his body to stumble. His left hand slammed into his side, hitting himself as hard as he could, forcing his weak frame to fold, and then he jabbed his thumb into the back of his knee, and fell to his chest.

 

“Let me go,” he wheezed, trembling, curling up. “I… I’m my own person. Let me go.”

 

_ “You belong to me,” _ the ink machine sighed, Joey able to hear the sadistic tones in his not - made - creation, and he could tell it was merely toying with him. A breath of wind tousled Joey’s hair, and he  _ knew _ it was the machine.  _ “So useful, so smart… such a pity you kept yourself useless and blind to see what was right in front of you the whole time….” _

 

Pipes snaked around his arms, yanking him forward. He did not resist anymore, the fight drained out of him ever so slowly. His feet dragged on the wooden ground, and he was pulled back within the building. The whispering grew louder. 

 

_ “I do wish I could chat, dear,” _ ink swelled by his feet, the rushing pipe’s whispers inevitably draining away at his mind.  _ “But I have far more… fun things in mind _ .”

 

“You’re sick,” Johan rasped, the air in his lungs stale and dead. Laugher and giggles and chuckles and guffaws ricocheted around him, driving into his mind, tearing at his thoughts. The scar on his side flared with pain, ink seeping through to stain his once white shirt once more.  _ L i a r _ . The ink machine chuckled, and a pipe snaked around Johan’s throat, lifting his head and squeezing his windpipe, cutting off the panicked breathing.  _ “Joey Drew, you’re the one who is sick, not me. I am perfect, I am perfection.” _

 

Johan groaned in pain, at least as much as he could with his breathing so tightly restricted, and the tightness growing. Tears dripped from his eyes, mouth open and gaping like a fish out of water, squirming and wriggling fretfully on the hook ensnaring it. The pipe around his throat rose him into the air, and the pressure worsened, his hands tugging at their bonds to try to alleviate the crushing pain. He felt as though his head might just tear off, and he could feel blood dripping from the scar on his neck, the newer skin rending with the will of the Machine.

 

He sobbed, the sound cut short by the lack of airflow. Then the coughing started, his lungs heaving with the need for air, the need to clear his system, the agony growing unbearable. 

 

_ So fascinating. _

 

His body was twisted this way and that, his organic muscles and calcium bones prodded at and examined from the ink within his body, the nerves and tendons touched and nipped. 

 

_ So human, and yet, such a monster _ .

 

Ink black darkness whirled in his sight, smashing and swirling together what little he could see. He still struggled and fought, but he had nothing to fight with, nothing to hit or shove or strive with, nothing in his grasp at all. 

 

Unless…

 

Johan’s tired eyes fell to the pipes gripping his arms. They were neither at his elbow nor at his wrist, somewhere right in between. With a twist and grunt, he managed to get his left hand over his head, the pipe rubbing against the one on his neck, pushing it up, but giving him more room to breathe nonetheless, he gasping in the air gratefully, cool honey tea in the middle of a dry hot desert, a brief but wonderful respite. With more strength and slightly less effort, he managed to get his right arm moved over his head as well, getting both of the pipes around the one on his neck, each end holding onto the thickest with a tight strength. 

 

Joey tucked in his chin, forcing the pipe onto his mouth, and braced himself for the hard part. With a swift  _ yank _ , he pulled both arms above his head, screaming slightly as the tight pipe around his head tore off, ripping some of his hair, giving himself a nosebleed, and knocking his glasses askew.

 

And yet, he was almost free! 

 

So close!

 

_ Oh dear, it seems you got your collar off! _

 

Johan growled at the pipes trying to get to him, biting and snapping and writhing and fighting.

 

No way in hell would he give up.

 

Not to that  _ thing _ .

 

His body flickered, oozed, and he slipped out of the grasp of the pipes trying to restrain him.

 

Gasping and grasping at his throat with his now free hands, the relief that crashed over him was larger than all the waters of the deep, warmer and more healing than the full force and heat of the bright sun.

 

_ Come back here, you pesky little bastard! _

 

“I may be a son of a bitch, but I am no bastard,” Johan growled, straightening his back and fixing his tie. “And I will not kneel to the likes of  _ you _ , you mangy,”

 

_ No. _

 

“Disgraceful,”

 

_ Close your filthy mouth. _

 

“Unfinished,”

 

_ I will tear you apart piece by miserable piece. _

 

“Clunky,”

 

_ Be quiet! _

 

“Sniveling,”

 

_ How DARE you?! _

 

“IMPERFECT SELF CENTERED HUNK OF SCRAP METAL!”

 

Suddenly, the pain in Johan’s side flared up, stronger than before.

 

_ You’re a liar _ .

 

Joey’s hand clutched his scar, gasping and sending him curling into a tight ball, the pain bobbing through his thin and weary frame, making him feel rather like a kitten thrown into the sea with its tiny claws deep in a small stick of driftwood, the only thing around for miles and miles and eras and eras.

 

_ You might think you know me, Creator, _ the final word was spat out, cursing and haughty, smug, and Johan could practically see the machine,  _ his _ machine, waltzing toward him. A hand made of a pipe grabbed him under his chin, forcing him to look up at the immense and sublime machine. _ Yet at the same time, I know you…. _

 

_ All your flaws _ , the burning pain of the scar on his hip spread to all his other scars, his hands sliced into with so many cutting blades, glass in his head, butcher knife in his shoulder, bullet in his arm, a blaze of four hundred fourteen fires on his back, there is  _ nothing _ on his back, and he could do naught but scream a wordless prayer and cry out with hot frustrated and agonized tears as he writhed.  _ And how many, so very many flaws there are…. _

 

_ I can see all your insecurities _ , those whispers were so insidious, yet so inviting. Johan, in all his pain, almost  _ wanted _ to give himself up to those words. The torture abated with those soothing croons.  _ I can free you of all of them…. _

 

_ Just give in. _

 

“Never!” Johan gasped. “I won’t!”

 

It was not the first time he and the ink machine had gone through this exchange, now. 

 

The torment of his flesh being torn apart, and then the soothingness of his body’s afflictions washing away as the pipes whispered to him promises and threats, then the pain returning as Johan refused, again and again.

 

He lost track of how many times the same words passed between creator and creation, he stopped counting the dizzying amount of injuries, he only waited for the void to claim him.

 

But the pain kept him drilled into the life he was so alone in.

 

He screamed as he felt his leg break in another place, a jagged pipe slamming into it and tearing at the weak meat beneath taut skin. Sometimes the pain was so great it made him black out. Sometimes his stomach heaved and he wanted to vomit, but the ink machine made sure he did not. And other times, he saw a glimpse of one of his loved one’s faces in his flickering vision, and it gave him strength to push forward, to move on. He was not his body, he was not the weakness of his mortal frame. 

 

_ Joey, please, we can work this out _ , soft coos were juxtaposed by the snapping of his joints into the wrong directions. The ink in his body tore it apart, far too slowly, so each and every nerve in his system was alight with the blazing agony.  _ I can heal you…. _

 

“You’re the one who is r-rippin’ me apart like a dog in the first place,” Johan snarled, earning for his insolence naught but a broken rib that pressed against his lung sharply. Johan’s head, which had already been subjegated to a vast amount of torture, lolled on his gashed neck. One of his eyes was swollen, covered in blood, the red of his iris blotted out by the red all around it. His body felt used and useless, and air rushed from his throbbing lungs. “G-God….”

 

_ Yes? _ the Machine answered teasingly, sweetly, the pain subsiding for but a moment, and Johan groaned. He was running out of time, that he knew. His shirt was no longer white, his pants no longer light greenish grey, everything around so visceral maroon and bloodstained, his hair, body, and clothes streaked with gore. He felt his head pulled upright by freezing pipe work, and he shrieked as the skin of his neck was torn even more. The muscles beneath spasmed and ripped ever so slowly, like a smoldering bit of caramel dripping between two tines. The windpipe and esophagus within pulsed as he swallowed blood and screamed prayers.  _ Your body is fascinating… there are so many unneeded parts. If only that skin there was gone, it would make it so much easier to see all the things that make you tick, Creator. _

 

He was torn apart, completely and utterly, the knuckles of his fingers bent at all the wrong angles, his head throbbing in pain, each of his vertebrae pulled at least an inch too far from where they should have been, his hips burning with the exertion of remaining on his feet. 

 

God, he was tired.

 

_ Give in, Creator. _

 

The tears that dripped into the wounds on his body stung and burned. Everything about him ached, and he was so very tired. His shoes felt slick with the amount of blood and sweat that pooled within. Twice he had already thrown up from the maiming, the third time only heaves of his stomach trying to force bile out of him, nothing forthcoming. 

 

_ Relax. _

 

Mercifully, he was laid down in the wet puddle of his own blood, staring up at the blank ceiling of sky, blackness surrounding him, the hissing whisper of the pipes the only sounds, coupling far too intimately with his panting breaths. 

 

_ I love you, you know, Creator. _

 

Joey sobbed as pipes that snaked to his chest tore his shirt open. He wished the poisonous words would ebb out of his hearing, but the whispers were in his ear, into his mind. The broken rib protruded in the husk of his skin at a vomitrocious angle, and Johan felt his stomach clench, yet nothing was within, and so he merely teared up with the nigh overwhelming pain. His good eye closed, and he tried to let himself drift away, the void so sweet and calling, filled with friends and family and the entire universe, and he longed to join them. The pain kept him there, kept him grounded, and refused to release him. The axe swung over his chest, cutting precisely over his sternum, slicing that area of skin in two, revealing his frantically quivering flesh beneath.

 

_ I want to see how you function when you are so broken, so flawed. _

 

The instruments Henry often used to conduct his own experiments on Johan appeared in his flashing vision. Yet they were never used to hurt him, not once, they were used to see and calculate and… love. They were used for good, used to make sure Johan was doing well.

 

Not what the machine had in mind, for certain.

 

The scalpel swept into his sight by the ink, and he felt the icy tip of the metal prod and poke at him, he hissing and wincing as the broken ribs were shoved around places they did not belong.

 

He could feel the cold air hitting his lung, and the wrongness of it all swelled and took over his emotions. He sobbed and cried out again, weeping for Henry, babbling like a madman as the wounds of his flesh proved too much for his mettle. But he would not give in, not here, not now, not ever. 

 

_ Give up, Joey. _

 

“You’ll have to carve the words f-from my lips,” Johan’s spittle tasted coppery, and he registered the blood soaking his throat. In a strange, twisted way, he was grateful for it. “I’ll never say ‘em, I won’t g-give up.”

 

_ But your heart has _ .

 

Johan’s head was tilted so he would be forced to view the damage wrought on his thin and weak corse. With it being nearly detached from his neck, the machine was able to show him much more of the damage than had his head been fully connected to his shoulders. 

 

His legs were shattered. His hips were sore and cracked. His gut had been stabbed, fluids dripping from the crevices in the flesh. His lungs heaved, ribs broken and moved out of place, fingers twisted all wrong as well, elbows snapped out. Looking at his fingers with the detached eyes of someone looking at another’s pain, and not his own, he noticed how they were torn apart along the lines of his scars. Everything about him was shattered, ruined, broken. A broken toy, to be tossed aside when it no longer sparked the same wonder. He swallowed, and the frigid air on the exposed inner workings of his gullet caused him to cough, blood dribbling out of his lips.

 

Johan could see his fluttering heart through the gaping hole in his chest.

 

He could see the ink smothering it, the ink running through it, the ink, the ink, the… in… ink….

 

His head fell back, and he cried out as the sensation of falling, twisting in the air and plummeting down, down, down overtook him. He no longer was in the studio, was he? He did not know where he was, and he doubted that he would be able to tell, his thoughts so painfully muddied and messy.

 

A sigh filled his mind.

 

Was it his own?

 

“Poor soul… come rest.”

 

His eye, the only eye he could open at the time, pried itself to see the source of the words.

 

A rush of air passed through his lips, barely able to speak.

 

“H-h-hun’o’ar?” 

 

The entity reached toward him, and he flinched away in fear. Even if it was the guardian, the destroyer, he still was too battered to do anything but fear.

 

The large hands passed through without touching him, and he remembered… void… code… being hollow… and tired… so very tired….

 

“‘m tired,” he wheezed from his torn lungs, even as he shook with clawing coughs. Tears slipped down the corners of his eyes. “B-but w-won’t give up. Can’t… can’t give u-up.”

 

“How I wish to comfort you…” the being’s words seemed hazy in Johan’s thundering ears. “But I cannot reach you. Life still holds you.”

 

“I know.” Johan’s voice was nothing but a hollow spark of air. “I know.”

 

He returned to himself in his blood, his eye creaking open.

 

The foul stench of gore penetrated the air, and he was glad that there was nothing to eat for the past year, else it would smell all the worse.

 

Had he died? 

 

The ink in his body kept him alive even as it had killed everything in the realm of life.

 

_ There you are, I thought I lost you. _

 

The whispers seemed all the more dangerous, even more haughty and sharp.

 

Johan was picked up by pipes, the metal beams careful not to tear his already broken body any more than it already was maimed and fractured. 

 

“C-can’t you let me die, in p-peace?” Johan nearly grumbled, wishing he were with Huntokar. He sent a quick askance to God for the messenger's help, the words of prayer on his lips and heart. Johan licked his lips to continue talking. His whole body felt so icy cold, like he had been dipped into a vat of dry ice. “Or are you too d-dependant, huh?”

 

Johan’s figure gave a painful electric jolt, a scream echoing through the air in his anguish.

 

“Coward!” Johan cried out to the air. “Show yourself, y-you bitter and twisted beast!”

 

He felt his unnaturally stretched back arch, but the pain was already gone, he could feel nothing.

 

“Unneeded! Clanky! Bulky, grotesque!” with each shout of reproof, the pain grew less and less. “You monster with no k-kindness! Overbearing load of tripe!”

 

Soon Johan was able to stand alone, his own pooling blood sticking to his feet, his hand pressed to the wall for balance. 

 

His body was maimed and broken, but his soul was even brighter than ever before.

 

He stood tall and proud, smothered in gore, tears all over his thin frame, so thin that if he were to fall he would shatter along those breaks into millions of pieces, and yet he stood.

 

“I will never give up!”

 

Johan took slow, deliberate, steady steps to the exit into the studio, making his way at a snail’s pace to the room he would have built the machine in, one step, two step, stumble step, get up step, one step, two step, and repeat. One, two, three, a humbling and striving dance of wills.

 

And Johan knew he would win this one, just this once, he would make it, he would do it.

 

The ink machine tried to slow him with taunts, with creaking pipes, with flashes of arms grabbing at him, but he ignored them, he braced himself and took them, and he closed his eyes and pressed on, getting closer and closer to his end goal of the machine.

 

Oh, how it hissed and sputtered and whispered sweet promises to beguile him, but the throbbing ache in his heart kept him moving, and to counter the pipe’s whisperings, he whispered to himself Names. The names of those he loved and lost.

 

Those names flashed through his mind, in his palpitating body, his quivering hands. They made his perseverance grow, made him keep moving despite his body wanting to do nothing but lay down and seek eternal respite.

 

_ Let me comfort you _ ….

 

“Jack, Johnny Doe,” Johan murmured, knowing that the sweet lyricist always knew exactly what to say, always was so kind and welcoming and comforting, that the words of the machine would never, not ever, compared to the bear of a man’s words. Johnny Doe’s kind and gentle demeanor his drawling tones and wonderful music, the way he never questioned the way Johan would flinch or shudder, only a soft smile to comfort him. The two musician’s partner in talent and voice came to Johan’s mind as well, rough at the edges, but with a heart of gold and the most tranquil voice and most wonderful melodies, how he craved to hear those old songs then, wishing greatly for his mind to stop racing if for but a moment. “Sammy.”

 

_ I can heal you of your wounds _ .

 

“Shawn, Jack, J-Jameson,” with each of the Flynn brother’s names he took three steps, “Sean, Tian, Marvin,” those kind and laughing and bubbling cousins, whose personalities were so vastly different yet so close at heart, “Chase, Robby, Henrik….” How he missed them, their comfort, their skills, their knowledge and laughter, and he pushed on, for them. He pushed on, and for Shawn’s love, Wally’s twin, the two brooklyn bostonians always there to help, always bickering and full of love, and his eyes welled with tears as the desire to see them once more nearly overpowered his weak heart. “Willy, W-Wally….”

 

_ We can build a new world, a perfect world! _

 

“Bertrum,” Johan wheezed, remembering everything he could about the builder, the way his hair curled above his brow, his rusty gold eyes, his blue suit. Another figure filled his oscillating vision, hir ringlet locks down hir shoulders, hir intelligent smile and bright eyes, hir soothing drawl that felt like home, and he murmured hir name as well, and his wonderful moth of growth. “Lacie. Gracehopper.”

 

_ A world of Light and Song! _

 

“Norman,” the bright man’s wit and calm demeanor was something Johan always admired, his booming laugh and gentle words always there to brighten Joey’s day. And the angels on earth, their heavenly voices so genteel, the wind singing their praises, so wonderful, sweet, and kind, each different. One fast and almondy, the other methodical and apple like, a delightful pie melding their traits together in warm buttery perfection. “Susie, Allison….”

 

_ Everyone will learn from the words on your lips _ .

 

“Dot,” he breathed the round girl’s name, knowing that her stories and ideas grew from his own, and a spark of pride filled his chest. He cared for her as though she were his own daughter, though their ages were closer than most would believe. And of course, his favorite Yeshiva student, his only Yeshiva student, his progedy and apprentice, so easily grasping all the concepts and methods he taught him. “Buddy.”

 

_ All the knowledge you seek to learn will be in your grasp _ .

 

“Grant, Sori,” the couple’s wisdom and smart was far greater than his own would ever be, and he accepted it, seeking to only learn from them, to study how they were so wonderful and great. And the genius of the pipe worker himself, the one who helped Johan get to where he was with all his knowledge and smart, the iron welding and woodworking that he ever so diligently learned under his watchful eyes. “Thomas.”

 

_ Your family will be the vastness of the entire universe! _

 

“Henry,” Joey immediately replied, the machine coming into his sight, and he could see all of the flaws and imperfections lining it. He limped toward it as thoughts of strawberry blonde hair filled his inner eye, and the globe in the shorter man’s eyes, the brilliance and love in his embrace. The feeling of his lips ghosting his own, prompting Johan to smile, though it pained him to no end. Then, her. His daughter. His darling dearest wonderful child. The sweetness of her laugh, the way he would braid her hair as she would tell him stories eagerly, her laugh and her hugs and wonder. “Linda.”

 

_ YOU CANNOT WIN! YOU BELONG TO ME! I AM THE ULTIMATE CREATION, I AM GREATER THAN YOU! I AM PERFECTION! I AM GLORY AND WONDER! I AM THE RENEWAL OF THE WORLD! _

 

“Nah,” Johan’s broken voice rang true and strong as he clambered into the machine, knowing exactly which screws to loosen, where to damage, how to defeat the false perfection before him. “You’re the end of it, pal. So, why don’t you shut up…” 

 

He exited the machine, and went to lean against the wall, sinking against it, summoning his computer with his flagging strength. The bee came with it, and he managed to smile, patting her small body.

 

_ YOU SHUT UP! _

 

“Why should I?” Johan rose an eyebrow. His scar on his forehead cried out against the action. “I have already beaten you.”

 

_ You’re a  _ **_liar_ ** .

 

The pain in his side burst once more, and Joey snarled as he came back to himself.

 

“FINE! I’ll play your game,” Johan hissed. “You’ve beaten me. Is that what you want to hear?”

 

_ Yes. _

 

The machine seemed smug, as though it were preening itself. Joey rolled his eyes.

 

“Oh, great and powerful machine, of perfection and w-wonder,” he let a smile grace his lips as he once again approached the hunk of junk. Already his mind was churning on how to improve it. “Perfect in all of it’s facets and being.”

 

_ Aren’t I? _

 

Joey smiled, holding the copper wires behind his back. The machine was so self centered, it was nigh unbelievable.

 

“And aren’t I a liar?”

 

That threw it for a loop.

 

“Well?”

 

All of the words of praise Johan had said were meaningless, bound by the machine’s own perception of him. It was quieted, forced to swallow it’s own words back into the inky depths. 

 

“I think you need a good dose of hope, eh?” Joey smiled, patting it on the metallic side, his bone potruding from his hands making a queer scraping noise. “How about it?”

 

Silence was the only answer.

 

“Well, I think we got off on th-the wrong foot.”

 

Power rushed into him as he attached the wires to himself, the machine.

 

“Let’s take it back to the start, hm?”

 

The code he worked on flared to life.

 

“And let it all restart.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Last Meeting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19208653) by [phantomthief_fee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomthief_fee/pseuds/phantomthief_fee)




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